


A Dragon's Tale

by Mysdrym



Series: Burning Legion [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Death, black dragon flight stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysdrym/pseuds/Mysdrym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before Amy Ford came to Azeroth, the black dragon flight plotted the downfall of the world, though, as with any plans, there was always that -one- dragon there to make sure things went wrong. This is Brath's story of how he came to be a mount, and a companion piece to Burning Legion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"How many times am I going to have to talk to you about this? My patience is growing thin."

Warchief Rend stopped in his tracks, backing up a few paces to peer into the supplies room. It seemed silly, but there, amidst the satchels of grains and crates of trade goods, stood Nefarian of the Black Dragon Flight, one hand crossed over his chest to support the elbow of the other, that hand pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were squeezed shut and it was quite possibly the only time the warchief had ever seen the dragon lord lose his composure.

The warchief could honestly say that, while he was glad for the alliance between the flight and his people, the dragons had always kept to themselves somewhat. That is to say, they were 'happy' to deal with blackrock problems (most were rather easily fixed with either fire breath or a quick snack), but dragon problems were always handled behind closed doors.

And apparently said doors led to the supplies room.

Nefarian was not alone, though the human figure standing before the dragon lord had his back angled toward the door, so the warchief couldn't tell who he was. Not that he probably could have if he'd seen his face. Those soft skins all looked the same. Even the ones only pretending to be soft skins.

The presumably second dragon shrugged his shoulders lightly, long dark hair shifting over his puny shoulder blades. Well, puny by an orc's standards. No doubt human women would label him quite the catch. Humans had such low standards. Did they even care if their mates could tear enemies apart with their bare hands?

The warchief was drawn from his thoughts as the creature spoke, his voice weak, like silk.

"Dearest brother—"

"Brathrion, don't," Nefarian snapped, glaring. His eyes flickered darkly and Warchief Rend considered going about his business lest his eavesdropping be discovered and he angered both dragons, but then…what orc let a little fear deter them from the chance to even out the power balance in an alliance?

If he could get something on the dragons…

Nefarian was still talking. "Our sister is embedded with those creatures! If you keep provoking them, they're going to demand attention and resources be used against us. Even if that  _didn't_  put our sister in a position where she'll have to strike against her own kind just to avoid suspicion, it will draw adventurers' attentions to us."

"So we'll have a good meal." The other dragon dismissed, before adding, "And that's what Arulion who ate those villagers, not I."

"Arulion, the fool who looked up to you? Arulion, who was hunted down this morning? Arulion, whose scales are now likely adorning some pitiful mortals footwear?" Nefarian growled. "That Arulion?"

"He shouldn't have gotten caught eating people," the other dragon shrugged. He reached out and drummed his fingers against a crate, the claw like tips pricking holes into the wood. "If all you wish to do is complain to me about our fool brother's passing and that our sister has bitten off more of the kingdom than she can rule, I don't' see why you needed  _me_. Couldn't you have hunted down Zaercia for this little heart to heart? I hear she's quite interested in all that sharing and caring nonsense."

"We have been working for a very, very long time," Nefarian took in a slow breath, as though trying not to snap. The warchief frowned as he realized the air had grown warmer and he was beginning to sweat. However, just as he was about to dismiss this dragon drama as something akin to what humans constantly bickered about—seriously, how could humans have such a skewed view of the world?

Only last week, the spire had been infiltrated by a small group of adventurers from the Alliance and they  _could_  have done some serious damage or in the very least reported how well armed and the like the Blackrock clan was. However, instead of focusing on the mission and putting it above all else, they had fallen into petty infighting. Apparently the mage, Becky, had accused the warlock, Tiffany, of sleeping with her lover, their group's warrior. The resulting catfight had alerted the nearby sentries and on their way over, they'd seen the corpses of their brethren littering the path and had wisely gone for back up instead of simply charging after the group. Even General Drakkisath had asked Warchief Rend about the fight, having heard echoes of the drama all the way in his chambers.

The warchief wasn't sure what was more annoying, the fact that the dragons seemed to think the orcs would be interested enough to be able to regale them with tales of what had happened, or the fact that a few of his orcs actually could.

As he considered that he should probably leave the dragons to their 'catfights', whatever those were, Nefarian's next words recaptured his attention.

"If they focus on us, they may learn of our father's condition or they may find solid leads on the cult. If even one fool can infiltrate the cult, years upon years upon centuries of plans will be overturned." Nefarian reached out and gripped his brother's arms. "Even you cannot be so foolish as to throw all that away. After all, you've invested your time into this, same as the rest of us."

"That I have, brother dear," the other dragon scoffed. "And I would appreciate if you'd remember that before accusing me of trying to sabotage it all."

With that, the dragon turned on his heels and sauntered out of the room, pausing to smirk at the warchief as though he'd known the orc had been there all along. Warchief Rend glared after him, though he froze for a moment when he realized that Nefarian had come to stand beside him, leaning in the doorway as he watched the other dragon disappear around a corner.

"Nefarian, I was…" the warchief trailed off, not sure why he was bothering to explain himself. After all, that would almost be like being afraid of him. And was Warchief Rend afraid of some giant, scaly beast?

He frowned as he realized that even in his soft-skin form, the dragon was still taller than he was.

"Warchief," Nefarian spoke the word in such a tone that made it sound like the most noble title one could bear. "I am…ashamed to ask it, but do you think you could help me with a rather…personal matter?"

The warchief stood at attention, his curiosity piqued. "Of course, dragon lord."

Nefarian offered a quiet half laugh, putting his arm around the orc's broad shoulders. "Walk with me."


	2. Chapter 2

Meryl Thachett took in a slow breath as she sunk down along the wall behind Lakeshire's town hall, the action only causing to further tangle her short blonde hair. Why did the guards have to run  _so_  fast? They were wearing plate, weren't they? She grimaced as she looked down to see a small cut on her arm, though in truth, she was sorrier to see that her shirt was ripped. After all, cuts and bruises healed.

Finding the time and/or gullible enough neighbor to steal another shirt from, however…that'd be a real pain.

She ran her fingers over her arm, frowning as her fingers were bloodied from the process, and then sucked in her breath, pressing herself further into the wall as she heard footfalls nearby. For fuck's sake, couldn't they just drop the search already? She'd stolen golden bracelets that hadn't warranted this much attention.

She looked down at the small journal in her hand, wondering if revenge was really worth it.

Jamal Ohaerre was easily the biggest jackass she'd ever met. He was a mage and he just loved to rub it in to all the 'common folk' that he was smarter than they were, for truly, only those with immense intellectual prowess were capable of mastering the arcane. Whatever that meant.

Meryl had accidentally taken the coins from the lockbox she'd opened for him  _once_  and somehow thirteen silver had been enough to ignite an eternal grudge. Before then, she'd had a fairly easy life. Sure she had no real home and pretty much everything she owned had once belonged to someone else, but things hadn't been so bad. She'd always had enough to eat and sometimes she even made some money with legit tasks helping people out in Redridge.

And then she'd had her incident with Jamal and it'd all gone to hell. Every chance he got, he was freezing her feet in place so that she'd have to stand in the middle of the street, arms crossed and fingers drumming as she waited for her toes to thaw enough for her to kick free. He'd threatened to set her hair on fire once, but she'd managed to get around that by crying to a guard.

Then he'd started tracking her, trying to get the guards to catch her in thieving ways.

It had been too much. She'd just wanted a way to get him to leave her alone and so, when she'd heard the creep talking about some super important book that he was expecting, she'd been thrilled.

If she could get a hold of it first, she could blackmail him into leaving her alone. Perhaps she'd give him a page a day or…or maybe make a copy and just threaten to send it to someone important.

Meryl had figured she'd think that far ahead if she actually managed to get the book, though, now…she almost wanted to simply toss it into the lake and be done with it. It had been almost too easy to steal the book from the courier. She'd just brushed against him and as she'd apologized and he glared, she'd lifted the book right out of his bags.

It was so simple…so…

Dammit, it had been a trap, hadn't it?

Meryl slipped along the wall when she was sure the guards weren't coming her way and deeper into the woods near the town. When she was sure she was further than they'd likely look for her, she pulled herself into a tree and sat on one of the lower branches, crossing her legs at her ankles as she set the book in her lap.

If it was something important to a mage, she probably wouldn't understand it. So there was no point in looking inside, right? After all, it'd just be magical gibberish and all that. She lifted her hands and started tossing the tome back and forth in her hands. As far as books went, it didn't seem to terribly old. There wasn't any sign that it'd sat in some forgotten library for ages, it's wisdom lost to the world. And actually, it looked like it hadn't been bound very well. Some of the pages stuck out awkwardly and she cursed quietly as she gave herself a paper cut on one when she caught it.

How funny would it be if she could pick up spells from a grungy looking book?

Mages were always going on about how their trade took such skill. Maybe that was all a load of bullock and if she read a bit, she'd be able to show Jamal a thing or two?

She wasn't sure why opening the book suddenly seemed so important, but she did. As she rested it in her lap and flipped to the first page, she frowned, realizing that it was written on a higher level than she'd ever learned. She'd never needed to know more than how to read and edit a merchant's order or a traveling caravan's manifest.

"Ta-wy-ly…" She frowned as she tried to sound out one of the first words. She was pretty sure that there weren't any  _real_  words which started with a T and a W. Honestly, who had written this?

She closed the book again, losing interest in any attempts to learn magic. She'd stick with her current skill set.

However, even as Meryl wondered how she was supposed to get word to Jamal that she had what he wanted, and how she could go about ensuring that he would leave her alone if she gave it to him, she felt a light, warm wind on the side of her face, sending a few strands of hair over to tickle her nose. She made a broad stroke with her hand to push them from her face and frowned as her hand thwacked into something hard near her head. Warm air brushed over her skin again and she turned her head slowly to stare into a pair of large golden eyes set amidst coal black scales.

For a moment, she looked just past her hand to see the elongated, pointy teeth sticking out from under the dragon's scaly lips and her mind completely blanked. All it would take to lose her hand would be a quick snap. Hell, it'd probably take her head off with it.

With a sharp, sucked in breath, she jolted off the branch and onto a higher branch, though she frowned as she realized she was just screwing herself over. The damned thing was huge. It's wings were folded against its back and its tail curled around the tree, the end looking like some massive barbed mace. The dragon itself was merely standing with its body beside the tree, its long neck letting it easily peer over her shoulder from the ground on her previous perch. It lifted a massive, clawed leg onto the branch she had just been on and started to lift itself up so that it could reach her again.

Meryl had never seen a dragon before, aside from a few poorly drawn sketches on wanted posters—she'd always laughed at the fools who went to hunt the damned things, as she was not of a mind to get skewered and eaten. Now, however, it occurred to her that all those heroes had apparently missed the most important one: the one living not a mile from Lakeshire.

Did it live here? Or was it just passing through?

She didn't consider asking it. Instead, she'd already climbed a branch higher, not liking that it was seemingly intent on following her moves. It cocked its head as it watched her, its gaze following hers as though easily figuring out all the escape strategies that went through her head. She wasn't sure what bothered her the most, that it was doing so, or that it didn't seem to feel the need to adjust itself to make up for any.

As she tried to swallow her fear, the creature bared its teeth in what almost looked like a twisted smile, smoke beginning to curl from the between its teeth. However, even as she froze, not knowing whether to dare the claws and tail or wait to see if dragons really did breathe fire, the creature's lips dipped down, a frown if ever she'd seen one.

"The book, my dear."

Holy shit, dragons could talk?

More importantly…

She straightened up slightly as she realized that the reason the damned thing hadn't eaten her or torn her to pieces yet was because she still had the clump of parchment gripped tightly in one hand.

Even as the creature drummed its tail into the ground slowly, impatiently, making the tree itself jar a bit from the force, Meryl felt her pulse slow. If the dragon needed something she had…

It was almost as though she were against Jamal. Well, if Jamal had sharp, nasty teeth and likely planned on snacking on her after their business was done.

"The book," Meryl whispered. She eyed the dragon again as it nodded its head once.

"Just drop it down and I'll be done with you, I promise."

She didn't trust the damn thing for a single breath. However, slowly, she held the book out, watching the way the dragon's focus seemed trained on it. She slipped her other hand into her pocket and found the smoke bomb resting in her pocket, thanking the light and whatever else there might be that she'd been prepared for more of a struggle from that courier earlier.

As soon as she'd thrown it, straight into the dragon's face, she bolted from the tree, narrowly escaping getting crushed by the tail as the creature roared and swung its tail about, uncurling itself from around the tree.

She didn't wait to see how long it would take the dragon to recover from her attack. Instead, she sprinted back toward town, hurdling over fallen logs and a small stream—funny how she hadn't remembered crossing this far into the woods when she'd been escaping the guards.

The guards…

Even as she remembered that they were possibly still looking for her, she let out a curse as the ground beneath her erupted in ice. She managed to twist herself around as it solidified around her feet so that her momentum didn't snap her ankles and instead simply broke the ice before it could catch her completely. However, even as she rolled onto her feet, ignoring the sting of her cut up knees and palms from the fall, she froze, several swords being held toward her.

"There was a dragon—" She started, though as she spoke she remembered the book and looked around in time to see Jamal standing a few feet behind her captors, leaning down and curtly picking up the tome. He dusted it off and gave her a glare before turning his back and leaving her to face the consequences of her actions.

~"~

Meryl sat in the tiny underground room that was to serve as her dungeon until they ported her off to Stormwind to be thrown into the Stockades. It was actually the inn's supply room and, though she was chained to the wall, it  _was_  still a wine cellar, so, at least for the time being, she couldn't complain much.

She'd tried to tell them about the damn dragon and she thought she'd gotten through to one of the guards, but of course the others had been quick to accuse her of trying to create a distraction and one had just had to be practical and ask where the damned thing was if it had been so close on her heels, like she'd claimed.

She had to wonder that, too.

It had seemed like it really wanted that book, so why not chase after her?

Even as she drummed her fingers against one of the bottles and wondered how much more trouble she might be in if she added it to her list of things taken without permission, she heard steps on the stairway and she set it down quickly, stepping to the side so that she could see who was coming to see her.

She had a few friends who'd grown up to be guards and she was praying that they'd be able to pull a string or two and get her out of this mess with perhaps a fine and a promise to never do it again.

As her visitor came down the stairs, she saw the swish of a robe and lost interest almost immediately. She'd been wondering when Jamal was going to come gloat. Honestly, she was rather surprised that he hadn't done so the night before when she'd been caught.

However, even as she tried to think of a fitting, witty insult for the arrogant bastard, she hear a soft laugh and a deep, vaguely familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I would like you to know how inconvenient this is for me."

There was no mistaking that voice. But…it couldn't be.

She turned and stared at the man who had come down the stairs. He was handsome—way better looking than most of the poor saps in Lakeshire, anyway—with bronze skin, long dark hair that spilled out from beneath the hood of his cloak, and—he'd taken to leaning against one of the nearby kegs, exposing his bare arms from beneath the folds of his cloak—he looked incredibly well tones.

As she stared at him in utter disbelief, she saw a glimmer of gold in the shadows of his hood, where his eyes would have to be.

He gave her a moment, cocking his head as he looked her over, before motioning toward her with a strong, large hand—she couldn't help but notice that his fingers looked a little more clawed than she was used to seeing.

"Now then, I believe we were discussing the return of a certain book…"


	3. Chapter 3

"About that book…Simply put, I need to make sure it doesn't—"

"DRAGON!" Meryl screeched, "There is a DRAGON down here!" She started to dart closer to the stairs—as close as her tethers would allow, at least—when she realized to do so, she'd have to get closer to the strange man.

He, however, seemed more off put by her shrieks than fearful that he was going to be found out. "Yes, that's right. Yell that the man who's offered to pay heavy fines for your release into his custody is a fire-breathing lizard. I'm sure your fellow townsfolk will appreciate that."

Meryl paused mid-word as what he'd said registered. She eyed the dragon for a moment, obviously doubtful of his truthfulness. Even if he wasn't a dragon, his speech implied that he was either noble or simply learned. She let her gaze leave his face and wander over his robe. It was in soft reds and browns and definitely looked like something Jamal might wear. Was he a mage then? Had he just made himself appear to be a dragon earlier or—

He certainly didn't  _seem_  very monster-like.

Looking back at his face, she narrowed her eyes slowly, searching for any tell that she could use against him.

He returned the stare, cocking his head much as the large reptile in the woods had, his long hair falling around his tanned shoulders. He was still leaning against the nearest keg, though he seemed content that she wasn't going to start screaming again and began to speak. "As I was saying, that book I saw you with before is a very dangerous book. It holds great power…power that even one as disinclined to magic as yourself surely felt." He hesitated, giving her the opportunity to affirm or deny his suspicions. When she merely stared at him blankly, he shrugged, letting his gaze leave her to wander the room. "I was tasked with guarding this book, but to my shame it was stolen. Now I need it back before it falls into the wrong hands."

He offered her what was easily one of the most charming smiles she'd ever seen, though something about his eyes made it seem sinister in one. A glint of mischief, maybe? She frowned, realizing she couldn't place what about him put her at ill ease. Perhaps it was as her mother used to say, the most wicked monsters had the most reassuring smiles.

As he leaned his chin into one hand, she realized that his other arm was resting against the keg with his palm up, as though he simply expected her to hand over that strange book, just because he'd asked nicely.

She somehow felt a pang of guilt as her shoulders slumped forward. "I don't have the book. Jamal got it…" Meryl trailed off as she thought of what the dragon had just said and then of how Jamal had been expecting the book. Of how angry he had seemed when she'd taken it and how, rather than scold her publicly, he'd chosen not to draw attention to himself or his newest acquisition.

She felt a knot in her stomach, which only served to tangle tighter in her gut when she looked up to see the dragon was eerily still, though his fingers on his outstretched hand had curled into a fist.

Meryl shivered, though she couldn't place if it was from fear or guilt. "I-I'll help you get it back!" however, even as she spoke the words, a small part of her whispered that it was a bad idea. After all, if the dragon's intentions were pure, why not present himself like this before? Why come after her in dragon form and…

She smiled at him, knowing it would look genuine. Being able to feign innocence was one of the few tricks of her trade that she's completely mastered and partially why she'd been able to live for so long without getting caught in her endeavors.

What she would do, as much as it pained her to even consider, was talk to Jamal. She'd explain her idiotic reason for stealing the damned tome and then let him know that there was a dragon after it. She knew that mage-bastard far better than this creature in front of her and she'd be able to tell with a few simple questions whether that book had truly 'fallen into the wrong hands'.

With a shrug, she motioned to her cuffs. "So, I guess that means you'd better get someone down here to undo these, huh? If I'm being released and all."

"That won't be necessary, they already gave me the key."

As he produced the small, rusted piece of metal and tossed it to her, Meryl felt uneasy. Who would give the keys to a prisoner's shackles to some random stranger? Could dragons do some kind of mind control to get things they wanted?

However, if it got her out of those cuffs…

She undid the locks with ease and then offered the dragon back the key. He smiled as he took it back and tossed it a few times in his hand. "Now then, I assume if you can help me get that book back, that you know where it is?"

"I know who has it," Meryl nodded, though she quickly held up her hands. "But I think I should go alone to get it." As the dragon narrowed his eyes, she shrugged. "It's this jerky mage, right? He has it. And, well, I'd wager mages can sense dragons. And if he's one of the bad guys, well, we wouldn't want him detecting you and casting a spell to make you useless or anything, right?"

He watched her for a moment before a slow smile tugged at his lips. It made him look wicked and she had to fight not to shudder. "If you think that would be best."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Meryl stared blankly at the stone wall across from her, her mind numb. Her lips were chapped and bleeding and she was just about ready to say whatever she had to, to get some damn water. But she couldn't do that, now could she? That would be letting that dragon bastard win.

She barely registered the footfalls outside her door or the clink of a key in the lock to her cell. She'd heard horrors about the Stockades all her life, but what she should have been afraid of was the dungeons beneath Stormwind castle, the places where the pompous pricks running things squirreled away prisoners who needed to have their brains picked.

As it was, she hadn't eaten in days and she was only given minute amounts of water to keep her going…at least until she 'confessed' for her sins.

The guards stopped in front of her one of them crossed his arms. "You got a special guest today, so if you've got any sense left in that head of yours, be polite and tell the truth for once in your miserable life, you hear?"

The truth…

It was all she'd been telling them, since she got there, and it wasn't enough.

But then, it was all she had, wasn't it? And if she kept to her story, to the truth, eventually they would see that she was innocent, right? That this was all some horrible misunderstanding? That she'd been framed?

She heard soft silks rustling as someone else entered the room and she had to wonder if some noble lady or gentleman got their kicks from harassing the damned. However, as she looked up, thinking that perhaps this new set of ears would actually  _listen_ , she saw who it was who had come to visit her and she felt all of the earlier hope she'd been clinging to seep out of her.

The woman in the doorway never took her eyes off Meryl as she addressed the guards. "We'll speak alone."

~!~

Meryl had told the dragon to meet her in an hour at an old fallen log just outside of town. While he'd seemed skeptical that she could get the tome in such little time, she'd feigned bravado and assured him all would be well.

As soon as he had grumbled something about trust and wandered off, she'd made a beeline to Jamal's home on the outskirts of the other side of town. She would talk to him and see which side she needed to be on. From there…either she'd steal the tome or warn the guards that there was a dragon nearby. Once they caught the damned thing, they'd have to believe her, right?

It wasn't until she found herself rooted to the floor that she considered that simply talking might not go over so well. However, this time, things were different. Jamal was apparently still bitter about her handiwork earlier. Rather than simply rooting her and leaving her to stand there in humiliation, the ice was working its way up her legs, freezing her through her flimsy leather armor. She looked around the room frantically before she saw Jamal sitting in one corner, partially hidden by the shadows. His face held an unusual amount of disdain and disgust as he glared her down.

She held her hands up in surrender, glad that she hadn't bothered to swing by the smithy to steal her daggers back. It wasn't like it would have been hard, after all, Lakeshire had quite possibly the worst security in the Eastern Kingdoms. However, she'd figured it would be a waste of time and she'd been figuring that she'd just sneak in  _unnoticed_ … So much for that.

"I'm unarmed! Please! Just hear me out!"

Jamal's eyes narrowed and she felt like promising him whatever she could think of to get him to let her go, until she realized that the ice had stopped just below her knees. She took in a shaky breath, though her resolve had barely returned to her when she noticed a staff tapping dully against the floor next to her foot.

"Talk fast or I shatter your legs."

Meryl yelped at the thought and before she could consider tact and all that, she started speaking quickly, unable to hide her terror of the whole situation as she looked up into Jamal's stern face. "Look I don't know what's in that stupid book of yours but I thought if I got it I could make you leave me alone, you know, a trade off. But then that dragon showed up and he let me out of my chains and he said that that book is really bad and that in the wrong hands it could do a lot of damage and he wants it back, so—"

"A dragon…?"

For a moment, Meryl was confused by the surprise on Jamal's face. After all, she'd said there was a dragon in the woods, hadn't she? However, before she could snap a quip about his hearing, he shook his head and began pacing. The threat of being frozen solid seemed to have subsided and she watched him closely, though it occurred to her that if he had been the villain, he'd have killed her the second she mentioned the dragon.

She tried to wonder if he was simply trying to use her to outsmart the creature, but then…Jamal had never been like that.

As he kept pacing, she felt her guilt from earlier returning. This time, toward him. That pacing was something she'd seen him do before when he'd been asked to conjure a spell that could help with something or other—she hadn't been paying attention, since she figured she wouldn't have to thank him for helping the town if she didn't know what he did—and she could practically see the pieces falling into place as he murmured softly under his breath and his gaze flitted back and forth, looking over imaginary pieces to some puzzle.

She felt her heart sink for a moment as she considered that Jamal had never truly done anything to be considered a bad guy and it had just been her personal disdain for him that had allowed her to even consider it. After all, that dragon had easily been far sketchier than Jamal had ever been.

"What color was it?"

"Huh?"

"That dragon. What color were its scales?"

He looked impatient as she tried to understand where he was going with this. Whatever was going on, he'd figured it out, assuming she answered his question right. "Black, I think? But it was dark when I saw him looking like a dragon, so maybe he was just a really dark coloring… What does it even matter—"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He looks human right now," Meryl snapped, before she could stop herself.

Jamal's eyes widened for a moment before he let out a single, disbelieving bark of a laugh. He ran his hand down his face, and then through his hair, shaking his head slowly. "If that's the case, then…"

"What?" Meryl hated being left in the dark. "You think there are just dozens of dragons wandering around pretending to be human?" She abruptly baulked at the thought. The one she'd seen still had traces that made him look draconic, but what if there were some who could hide that?

"You're such a novice it's amazing," Jamal shook his head as Meryl snapped a quick retaliation. "To think I thought you could be part of the Twilight's Hammer." When Meryl simply gave him an annoyed, indignant look, he frowned. "The Black Flight is led by Neltharion. He's a wicked creature who was defeated years ago, but…there have been rumors that someone else has taken the reins and that they're plotting something big. Something about Twilight." He crossed his arms, inspecting Meryl as if he'd never really seen her before. "That book ties into it all. With it we'll finally be able to get a step ahead of them. Now then about that dragon..."

Jamal darted around Meryl as though she were a permanent fixture in his home that he was used to avoiding every day. As he went to a small coat stand next to the door, Meryl struggled to twist around at her waist so she could keep her eyes on him. Stupid ice.

"If we can catch it, perhaps we can crack the cipher the book is in faster. Do you know where it is?"

"Behind you."

Meryl felt her heart stop as she heard the dragon's voice from somewhere near the doorway. She tried to whirl around, but the ice on her legs held fast and she found herself straining her ears, waiting to hear Jamal cast some spell or…something.

Instead, she heard footfalls come around her other side and she turned her head, at first relieved to see Jamal, though even as she felt herself relax, he slumped forward to the ground. The dragon dropped Jamal's cloak on top of him as he flipped a dagger through the air slowly, a half smile on his face.

She stilled as she realized it was one of  _her_  daggers.

"You humans are so amusing, the way you think you're so much smarter than you are." He came to a stop in front of her, still flipping the dagger slowly. "Granted, you're clearly not an exemplary example of your species' intelligence. Honestly, what kind of rogue has never heard that the best way to beat a caster is to kill them before they can cast?"

Meryl's eyes snapped back toward the mage lying at her feet. "Jamal? Jamal get up!"

"The dead don't rise this far south," the dragon taunted, turning his gaze to look over the room. As he started toward the hall leading to the backroom and the stairs, he paused to drop Meryl's dagger. "Now where do you suppose he hid that book?"

It could have been a life time that Meryl had stood there, trying to chip away at the ice on her legs so that she could kneel down and check on Jamal. All of her hate for him had disappeared and all she could think of now was that it was her fault that he was lying there. If only she'd been brave enough to turn the dragon down. Or smart enough not to lead him straight to the book he was after.

However, even as she noticed the blood edging across the floor away from his body, she smelled the smoke and it only took her a moment to realize that the house was on fire. As the flames consumed more of the home, the heat finally thawed out her legs and she gripped Jamal's arm, trying to drag him out of the house with her, though she was ashamed as she realized that even as a mage, he was too heavy for her to lift.

She knelt beside him and rolled him over, choking on a sob as she realized that his throat had been cut from ear to ear with her weapon. As she covered her mouth to keep the smoke from her lungs, she leaned down. "I'll make sure people know about the dragons and the book, okay? I-I'm so sorry…"

Even as she escaped the flames into the cool night air, she was grabbed by guards and thrown to the ground. Meryl looked up frantically, recognizing the captain of the guard standing over her as another man shackled her hands behind her back roughly. "You have to hurry! Before the dragon gets away! He—"

She let out a gasp as he kicked her hard in the ribs with his plated boot. The pain exploded through her on impact and she found herself trying to curl up into the dirt to make it stop. Even as she held back a hiccupped sob, fingers went through her hair and she was jerked up off the ground so that she could look into the man's eyes.

"Private Millson thought of you like a little sister! He volunteered to watch you so that nothing ill befell you and you repaid him with a lightdamned knife in his back? For what? A damned key to your shackles? A  _book_?"

Meryl felt like time had stopped. Private Millson? As in…Brett Millson? He was one of the best men she'd ever known. They'd grown up together. Sure she'd been a street rat and he'd had a family, but he'd always left his leftovers from dinner on his windowsill so that she wouldn't go hungry and he'd even taught her how to read what little she could. When he'd gotten married, it'd broken her heart because she'd always had it in her head that somehow they were going to live happily ever after.

Brett was dead?

She tried to swallow her panic. It couldn't be true. "The dragon said—"

"Oh, the beast talks now, does it?" The commander spat on her face, abruptly releasing her hair and letting her crash to the ground. "Tell me, did the beast also sneak to the smithy and steal your weapons for you? Did it also kill Private Daggard because he'd been passing by and saw the great beast picking the tiny lock?"

Meryl's eyes widened slowly as she looked up at him, a numbness taking over her mind and body. She thought of Jamal's body, that they would find when the flames died down. Of her dagger, that was still lying on the floor beside him.

As she was hauled to her feet and forced onto a horse for the long ride to Stormwind, she kept going over everything in her head again and again. There had to be something the dragon had done…some slip up. Something she could point out to prove her innocence and to warn everyone that the dragons were far more dangerous than the stories of fire-breathing monsters lurking in caves.

There had to be  _something_.

~!~

A scream rang out from the dungeon and the guards jerked the door open, one of them already cursing that they'd allowed the private conversation to occur at all. As they hurried in, they stopped, one's eyes widening as he looked to the far wall to see blood already pooling on the floor and staining the elegant fabric of the noble lady's gown.

"Lady Prestor!"

The dark haired woman looked up, a frown in place as she let her hands fall away from the lowlife rogue. The young woman held a shiv in her hand—where she could have gotten it was beyond either of the guards' imagination—and her throat was slit. Lady Prestor rose to her feet, her eyes still on the body. "I tried to reason with her, but…"

"You're not hurt, are you?" One of the guards stepped up to her and started to reach out to put his hand on the lady's shoulder, but stopped himself. Something about Lady Prestor had always unsettled him, though he could never place what.

"I'm fine, though…I would have rather had information than this… _confession_." She spoke the last word with such venom, it made the two men recoil. She looked at them, a grim smile in place. "She said that she would never let the Twilight Cult's secrets be known and then she…" She motioned to the body.

"I thought we were looking for something called the Twilight's Hammer?" One of the guards objected.

Lady Prestor shrugged, stepping away from the corpse and toward the door. "Perhaps she slipped up and offered us real information in her dying words, then?" As she reached the hallway, she looked back at the men, her expression eerily calm. "I trust you can clean up this mess? I need to send word to a few contacts about this turn of events."

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Brathrion, a moment, if you will?" Nefarian called out to his brother as the dragon sauntered down the halls of the Upper Spire. Brathrion stopped in his tracks, his golden eyes giving his brother and the warchief beside him unwarranted scrutiny.

When they reached him, Nefarian extended an arm in greeting to his brother. Brathrion made no attempt to reciprocate and Nefarian sighed and let his hand drop back to rest against his leg. "I wanted to apologize to you, dear brother."

"The great dragon lord admits that he is wrong?" Brathrion snorted, crossing his arms across his chest, his robe whispering around him from the movement. He peered toward Warchief Rend as though expecting to find some clues as to their meeting on the orc's face.

The orc felt indignant and clenched his fingers around the small package in his hands. The paper wrapping crinkled, threatening to tear, and he loosened his grip. It wouldn't do to break its contents. After all, it had taken a good many nights of hard work from some of the Blackrock clan's finest blacksmiths to forge.

Nefarian was undeterred by his brother's standoffish behavior.

"We found the book that was lost."

Shifting his weight, Brathrion leaned his head back so that he could look down his nose at the two of them. Such disrespect left the warchief's blood boiling. "I'm afraid I don't keep track of everything you lose,  _dear_  brother."

Even Nefarian seemed displeased with the haughty tone. The air felt warmer to the orc and he wondered if such temperature changes were common during dragon arguments. However, the dragon lord quickly checked his temper. "A book was stolen from the cultists. I'd thought you were up to your mischief again. It is back now and our lovely sister has dealt with the last of the humans who had it. All who laid eyes upon our secrets are dead and rotting."

"As it should be," Brathrion murmured. The warchief thought he saw a flicker of satisfaction on the creature's face, though it was always hard for him to read expressions on those weak, pink faces.

"As it should be," Nefarian repeated with a firm nod of his head. Hesitating, he motioned toward Warchief Rend, his gaze leaving his brother for the first time since they'd spotted him. "It may seem odd, I know, but as I am pretending to be a human so much of the time, I thought I might hone my skills on some of their better practiced customs."

"You're going to run about with a tankard in one hand and a wench in the other?" Brathrion arched his brow, attempting—and failing—to look innocent.

Frowning, Nefarian closed his eyes. With a half-hearted smile, he looked back at his brother. "They call it gift giving." Brathrion instantly narrowed his eyes, but the dragon lord continued, motioning for the warchief to give his brother the package. As the orc did so, he noticed the hesitation in the dragon's hands when he took the item, his claw-like fingers pinching into the paper and tearing it slightly. "I wrongly accused you of going against our flight and I wish to make amends."

"Apologies coupled with material exchanges hardly ring true," Brathrion objected, weighing the package in his hand, a frown firmly in place.

"I know it is not our way, but as I said—"

"You've become more human," his brother interrupted. He smiled thinly, his teeth looking sharper than most humans Warchief Rend had encountered. "Or something like that."

"If you decide you do not wish to keep it, I understand, but do indulge me." Nefarian motioned toward the package. "I thought it would be oddly…fitting for you."

Head tilted, Brathrion held Nefarian's gaze as he flexed his fingers and let his claws tear away into the paper. Even as the orc thought to object, he dragon let one of his nails tear a proper cut into the wrapping. Holding it by one corner, he tilted the package upside down, emptying its contents into his palm.

When a single piece of metal fell into his hand, he arched an eyebrow. "You used an entire tree to wrap a rock?"

"An ear clip," Nefarian corrected.

Brathrion lifted the item, holding it between his thumb and index finger as he inspected it. It was designed so that it would look like a dragon snaking up the side of his ear, if he tried it on. Two small wings stretched away from the main body and two tiny red rubies glimmered as the beast's eyes. It had been welded from a beautiful, shining obsidium.

"If I wanted to wear another dragon, I'd skin someone from another flight," Brathrion dismissed, dropping the trinket onto the ground.

Without thinking, the warchief curled his fingers into fists. However, Nefarian merely stooped down and plucked the delicate item from the dirt beneath their feet. He offered it to his brother again. "Try it on? I'll get you a mirror and if you truly find it hideous, I'll not object to you returning it to molten metal right then and there."

"What troubles me," Brathrion replied, making no attempt to retrieve the item from his brother. "Is that you would think me foolish enough to wear anything so steeped in magic."

"It is a ward," Nefarian snapped, unable to keep his disdain from his voice. Warchief Rend felt like his hair might be set alight any moment if he did not away himself. He stood his ground. The dragon lord took in a measured breath and forced a smile. "So many of us are falling to adventurer's blades. This should help hide your draconic essence from the more magically inclined."

"But I thought this was an apology for assuming that I'm stealing things and taking them places where such creatures dwell?"

Nefarian looked like he was losing his patience. Trying to salvage their plan, the warchief stepped forward, standing proud and tall. "Lord Nefarian asked we forge you something and it was my men's idea to ward it. They are good with their work, but they do not always think as you dragons would."

With a soft laugh, Brathrion took a few steps away from them. "You should teach your pets to lie better, brother." Before the orc could argue that he was hardly anyone's pet, the dragon had conjured fire. It was everywhere in the halls, burning away banners, searing the stone itself. The warchief recoiled from the flames, stumbling back a few paces.

Nefarian, however, held his ground, even as the edges of his pant-leg's cuff was singed by the encroaching magic. It stopped harmlessly at his feet and it took a moment and the final waning of the flames before Warchief Rend realized that his draconic ally was laughing.

Rushing forward to stomp the fires into embers before they could rekindle themselves and do any real damage to the spire, the orc gave his partner in crime a sideways glance and paused when he saw the genuine amusement playing on the man's face.

Lips turned up at the corners in a most cruel smile, the dragon lord turned to meet Warchief Rend's gaze, tossing the little trinket at the orc, most unconcerned.

The warchief hesitated as he caught the tiny thing. It was hard to believe his people had managed to make something that looked so…delicate. "Lord Nefarian, I will alert my guards. He won't get out of the mountain."

With another low laugh, Nefarian spun on his heels and began down the hall, back toward his chambers. "And where would be the fun in that?"


	6. Chapter 6

Briggs Boltbucket loved every inch of Azeroth. Its wandering meadows, its rolling seas, its towering mountains. Every wild flower, cloud, and bug was a new wonder, an inspiration.

If only he didn't have to travel to see them.

Well, it wasn't the travel itself that he minded, really. He had a sturdy set of legs and the will that could enable him to climb a mountain just for the fel of it. The truth was that he just wasn't much of a fighter. Sure, he could hold his own against most anything in Dun Morogh without having a problem, but he didn't care to. He didn't want to hurt creatures unnecessarily. There was already so much violence in the world.

Shifting his pack on his shoulders, Briggs cleared his throat , hoping to catch his traveling companions' attentions. While Samuel Jacobson kept up his brisk pace, Anora Sunwisp dropped back to match the little gnome's pace. Her orange hair fell over her shoulders as the high elf leaned down, a gentle smile on her lips.

"Everything okay?"

Samuel glanced over his shoulder, a frown in place. The little gnome puffed out his chest, though his cheeks quickly followed, a rosy hue of fatigue painting them.

"I told you not to let him tag along." Already, the human's back was too them. As his gruff voice rang out, he hauled himself over some broken stone with an eerie fluidity, a sign of years of experience with heavy armor. The metal around him clinked ever so softly as he stood on the more even ground on the higher part of the slope and kept on walking.

Briggs was a rather simple gnome, his travels rarely taking him further than Loch Modan or Stormwind. With his inexperience came the inability to offer much in the way of aid to any groups of adventurers and so it was always with idle wonder that he inspected the WANTED boards in Ironforge. He'd once been brought along as far as South Shore, though that had only been because he could make portals back to the main cities, well to his city. He'd somehow never managed to learn the one for Stormwind—let alone for any dwellings across the sea—and his companions, humans mostly, had been quite put out that their adventures would not end with a simple conjure.

A few of them had even stayed in Ironforge long enough to warn others not to group with such a novice as Briggs.

Still he checked those ads, still he watched the heroes of his time stride through the cavernous corridors, and still he dreamt of a day when he could go off into the world again. To somewhere he'd never been. Somewhere without snow.

Almost two weeks before he'd headed off on his own adventure, he'd seen the flyer tacked neatly to the board. It stuck out because it had obviously been put up with more care than most and the handwriting was far neater than he was used to seeing. Most of the time, it was a game unto itself simply trying to decipher who it was that was asking for help and with what they needed it for.

However, the words had been printed so clearly, with no ink blotches or crossed out letters to sully the page. Someone was looking for accompaniment through the Searing Gorge.

That was all it said.

There was nothing about what he or she was looking for or why he or she would be interested in going to so drear a place. In fact, the only real information on there was where to go to offer assistance.

The first day, Briggs had merely gone home, rummaging through his father's old tomes that had been left to him and tagging any entries about the Searing Gorge. He'd read about the Dark Iron dwarves—he already knew enough of them, but still refreshing his memory was always fun—and dragons and orcs and spiders bigger than his entire living room.

It seemed a most unfriendly place and Briggs had considered that it was not like to be a place he would enjoy overly much. If anything, he would be a burden to any group heading out.

Even so, the next day as he'd eyed the board, he'd been disappointed to see no new adventures posted. His gaze had kept wandering back to the neat little note. Already someone had bent one of the corners and smudges dirt across the bottom edge.

As he'd eyed which inn the poster would be staying at, he'd realized it was on his way home and had decided to swing by. While he didn't doubt he'd be rejected, there were generally one or two weary travelers willing to share their own stories in exchange for a pint or two.

When he'd wandered in and looked around, he'd known who'd written the note right away. A high elf—Anora—had seated herself near the center of the room, where she sat prim and proper, her hands clasped on the table as she stared expectantly toward the doorway. Her eyes had lingered on Briggs for a moment and she'd even started to smile, when he was jostled by a dwarf in the middle of a rather zealous spiel. He'd shuffled over to the bartender to ask for a few drinks, but when he'd looked back at the elf, her gaze was again on the door.

Feeling oddly slighted, Briggs had gone home.

However, the next day, he'd seen that flyer still there and had swung by the inn again. Again Anora sat alone in the middle of the room, eyes glued to the door as she watched people come in.

Briggs had taken a seat with one of his gnomish friends near the bar and watched the elf for the duration of the evening. She was pretty, for an elf, he'd supposed, though she was far too lanky and thin for a stud like Brigg, what with his handsomely large ears and eyes, full head of hair, and stout little frame. His nose was a little weak, but he was still quite the catch, even if the ladies hadn't figured that out yet.

When his friend had finally asked what he was so curious about, he'd pointed to the lonely lady.

The barkeep had laughed, leaning against the counter and inserting himself into their conversation. "The lass wants an escort into hell. Maybe two people have come to talk to her about it, but neither liked what she had to say." As someone else called for a refill on their drink, he'd pushed himself away from the counter. "And so she sits and so she waits."

For a week, Briggs had come back every night to watch the elf as she waited for someone to take her up on her adventure. On the eve of the seventh day, as he'd paid his tab and turned to head home, he'd been startled to find Anora had left her seat and stood behind him. As he'd peered up into her face, she'd smiled faintly and nodded toward him.

"I don't mean to impose, but I can't help but feel that you are interested in helping me with my journey—"

Even as Briggs took in a slow breath, half wanting to scream that of course he was and half wanting to admit that he wasn't the most skillful companion one could have, someone had interjected on his behalf.

It was a grizzled old dwarf. One eye was gone, as was one hand, though he'd had someone—a gnome no doubt—build him a replacement for his stub that allowed him to lift a mug, in the very least.

"Master Boltbucket is Ironforge's dreamer, lass. He can help you about as much as that chair over there can."

Before Anora could reply, Briggs had run off, not wanting to face her, to see her disappointment when she realized it was true.

For the next few days, he'd thrown himself into his work with extra vigor. He'd managed to finishing translating an entire old text when his eyes finally demanded a rest. Feeling that he'd probably hidden himself away long enough, he'd allowed himself a stroll through the thriving city. The hem of his robe had dragged behind him as he wandered the iron halls, peering into shops and idly wondering how many others dreamed of seeing the world as he did.

He'd thought that perhaps he ought to put up his own flyer, though he didn't have much in the way of wealth to pay anyone with and he'd found most people didn't work on altruism that would require dedication of more than a few hours on their part.

As he'd stopped at the notice board, he'd paused when he saw, peaking out behind a few new notes, that neat, plain request. Had the elf simply forgotten to take it down?

Forgetting his earlier humiliation, Briggs had made a bee-line toward the inn and his jaw had dropped when he'd walked inside to see that she was still seated at that same spot, eyes on the door. Gathering himself a bit, Briggs had ignored any stares his way and strode up to her, climbing into a chair next to her.

He'd met her startled gaze with a determined one and nodded to her. "I'm not the best at anything, but if you can settle for that, I'll be happy to help you."

And here he was, though he couldn't say how much helping he was actually doing.

They'd picked up Samuel in the Badlands. Well, he'd picked them up, really. The duo had been accosted by orcs—the Horde kind, not the Blackrock—and just as it had seemed like all was lost, Samuel had shown up out of nowhere and saved the day. He easily outskilled both of his companions, though he was hardly one of the most prominent warriors of the Alliance.

He was well on his way, though.

Unfortunately, Samuel was well aware of this.

The human's attitude was a miserable one and he'd been quite condescending when he'd told the duo that they oughtn't try to risk the Gorge—he'd said it casually, like it was a place he frequented, though Briggs had doubted that—as even the weakest creatures out there would likely tear the two of them to pieces.

However, Anora had been determined and Samuel had been equally so in not letting a lady fend for herself—he'd sort of written Briggs off, after seeing out half of the gnome's spells had missed the orcs or simply backfired on him during their fight.

In all honesty, Briggs had the distinct feeling that the human felt he was cramping his style. He might have tried to give the two a bit of space so that the human might be able to win some points with flattery or manliness or something, were it not for the other distinct feeling he was getting from Anora.

While she didn't mind the help, she minded the man.

Briggs was sure of it.

Thus, he'd made sure to stick close enough to her that the human hadn't any time for unnecessary advances.

Even as Briggs thought to reassure her that everything would be alright—both his little legs and their adventure—her delicate ears perked up and she stilled. He strained his own ears, but without knowing what she was listening for, he found himself still lost.

Abruptly, she darted to the side, over some of the more precariously balanced rocks that pocked the side of the mountain they were climbing. They were just inside the eastern most 'wall', so to speak, of the Searing Gorge, with the plains and canyon stretching out almost a mile beneath them into the foggy haze of sulfur and volcanic smoke that blanketed the region. They'd been weaving their way through the narrow paths between the jagged breaks in rocks and remnants of avalanches, as Anora seemed determined that whatever she was looking for—it abruptly struck Briggs that he still didn't know why she was out here—was somewhere in the south eastern mountains.

Her determination as she scampered over a few teetering rocks startled both her companions and Samuel turned to glare at the gnome, as though ready to accuse him of upsetting their fair friend.

However, a sharp command for them to hurry after her stayed any brewing fight. The two rushed after her, finding the path to be considerably harder for them, as they were not nearly as light footed as the elf. After almost five minutes of hopping from rock to rock, she slid down into an awkward crevice. It was shadowed by an outcrop a few yards above it—a rather unstable looking outcrop, that made Briggs' stomach to flips every time he looked up—but even in the darkened recesses, the small gnome could make out the form of a human man sprawled out near where Anora had knelt.

As he drew closer, he could see the stranger wore tattered robes of gold and black. The man's skin was far more tanned than even Samuel's and he had long dark hair plastered to his face with sweat.

No, not sweat.

Blood.

The ground around him was tainted with it, making the already dark tones of the earth look black. Briggs skittered up to Anora, swinging his pack onto the ground and beginning to rummage through it. "I've got some bandages—"

"I can heal him…" Anora interrupted, though she'd already risen and was peering out at the mountains around them. Her eyes glanced upward for a moment and Briggs shifted his weight a little.

"You don't think a dragon tried to eat him, do you?"

"If it had been a dragon, there wouldn't be this much left of him," Samuel muttered. Despite his dismissal, his blade and shield were in hand.

Anora frowned. "Let's not get started on dragons." She pulled herself up onto a rock and gazed around their surroundings before pointing a little ways further. "It looks like there's a cave over there." She hesitated, dropping back down. "I'd heal him here, but…" her eyes wandered upward and Briggs was reminded of the precarious state of their current shelter. It wouldn't do anyone any good to heal the man here only to have rocks collapse on the whole lot of them.

Without a word, Samuel sheathed his weapon and knelt beside the stranger. He felt for any broken limbs and then, unceremoniously shouldered the stranger and began the perilous trek toward the cave.

Anora pestered him the whole way, throwing a few smaller spells onto the man as they went. Though Briggs suggested that they stop and heal him as soon as they were out from under the unstable rocks, Anora had shaken her head, saying she didn't want her magic to draw the attention of anything that might be nearby, as she doubted such things were likely to be friendly.

Once they had made it to their new shelter—and been relieved to find it uninhabited—Anora shooed them back outside to keep an eye out for any enemies. Really, Briggs suspected it was so she could tend to the stranger's wounds without the constant clucks of disapproval from Samuel when she opened the man's robes to get a better view.

Humans were such odd, territorial creatures. Even when they didn't actually own the 'territory' in question.

The eve was quiet and warm and, with little in the way of monsters in their vicinity, Briggs found himself pondering ideas for conversation. He kept thinking that if only he could just find some common ground, maybe the human would be more amiable. However, each subject he thought of either bored him terribly—humans often seemed fond of politics, though he could never interest himself and, even if he could, he doubted he'd know any nobles the warrior might mention—or seemed too forced.

When he glanced toward Samuel, he caught the man watching him as well.

"There a problem?"

His voice was rough, guarded. Briggs did his best to smile and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, no. I, uh, just like your sword." It was true enough, even if it was possibly the lamest thing he could have said. They'd been traveling companions for a week already and that was all he could think of? When he realized that no scathing comment that agreed with his mental chastising was forthcoming, he looked over to see that the human had drawn his blade. It rested against his palms.

Samuel's expression softened. "It was my brother's."

"Oh?"

Suddenly his face was hard again, as it had been before. He sheathed the weapon. "Nothing you'd want to hear about."

"I wouldn't say that," Briggs prodded, though he instantly felt nosy. "I just mean, if you want to tell, I like stories."

Samuel scoffed. "It's one you've heard before, I'm sure."

Even as Briggs perked up, detecting a willingness to share in the human's tone, Anora's voice called them from their bonding. "I'm done. If you'd like, I think we should rest here for the night and wait for our new friend to wake."

Samuel merely shrugged and pushed away from where he'd been leaning against the mouth of the cave, striding inside. As Briggs trailed after him, he paused when he looked toward the newcomer. For an instant, he'd thought he'd seen a glimmer of gold near their new companion's face, but when he looked more directly at him, he realized it had been a trick of his mind.

After all, the man slept still, so his eyes couldn't have been open.


	7. Chapter 7

"If it's such a problem, then just send  _me_  back."

Briggs winced a little from the man's tone. However, he could hardly blame him. According to Brett—the dark haired stranger they'd saved—his whole party had been devoured by a fearsome dragon. Oddly enough, rather than Anora, it was Samuel who sympathized with him the most. Briggs had to say he was surprised, though he wondered if dragons somehow tied into that sword and Samuel's brother.

However, such thoughts were for another time. Instead, he was debating how he ought to interject himself into the conversation arguing over the potential use of  _his_  talents. When Brett had come to, he'd demanded to be sent far away where the dragon could never hurt him. When Briggs had explained that he could only provide portals to Ironforge, Brett had grumbled but said he'd take it. That was when Anora had stepped in.

She'd been panicked at first, saying that she was looking for something important and she didn't want to leave it behind just to tend to some fool. When Brett had snapped that he didn't expect everyone to drop everything and come with him—that just he could take the portal—Anora had become oddly defensive about it.

As Brett glared at her with his brilliant, golden-bronze eyes, Briggs leaned toward Samuel. With their healer locked in a battle of wills with their new companion, he doubted they'd notice any side commentary.

"He doesn't exactly look human, does he?" Briggs whispered so low that, when Samuel didn't reply, he assumed he hadn't heard him. Humans had such tiny ears, surely they missed a lot. When he looked at the warrior, though, he found that Samuel's gaze was on him, not the argument. Briggs shifted a little. "I mean, his hands are a little on the clawed side."

Samuel rolled his eyes and shrugged. "He's a practiced mage…or even a warlock." He paused, frowning. "I've seen magic change people's features. Grow horns and all that. In the legends of the Legion's power, they say that night elves changed into satyr."

"I've never seen either," Briggs whispered, awed at the thought. He wondered if he'd ever start changing, should he become a more powerful mage.

Samuel shifted his weight. "Neither have I," he professed. "Never been to Kalimdor. But they say the difference is huge."

Briggs nodded thoughtfully. When he got home, he would have to look into that. Just as he thought to scribble the idea down so that he wouldn't forget, a shadow fell over him.

Brett knelt before the little gnome, his eyes almost glowing. "I will pay you in knowledge of the arcane if you will use one measly portal rune to send me to Ironforge."

Despite being puzzled by the fact that a fellow, more powerful mage wouldn't have the portal—perhaps he was a warlock after all—Briggs began to offer that he needn't pay him.

Anora would have none of it. She still stood near the fire, arms crossed and pale blue eyes narrowed. "You're not well enough to take any portals."

"I am quite capable of stepping through a twisting vortex of magical energy—"

"It will tax you and you'll likely end up in a coma, if not dead, on the other side."

Briggs thought it was kind of the high elf to be so concerned, but he could sense innate magic in Brett. The man would be fine. And after whatever horrors he'd seen? He deserved to put plenty of space between himself and this place.

Briggs shuddered. Even as Anora started to argue again, he coughed loudly. When all eyes were on him, he forced a nervous smile. "How is this: Wait for two or three days. Then, even if you're not in tiptop shape, I'll send you to Ironforge."

Anora looked displeased, but Brett merely eyed him. The two stared at each other for a moment before Brett rose back to his feet. "Swear it?"

"On my life," Briggs replied without much thought. It was a saying his father had used often, making even the simplest of tasks bear that grave sense of importance.

"But do you swear it on his?" Brett pointed at Samuel.

Briggs was still for a moment, taken aback same as the others. With a nervous glance toward Samuel, he finally nodded. After all, it wasn't a complicated spell. And this whole matter wasn't  _that_  serious, right?

Briggs woke up to a hand over his mouth as he was shaken awake. Even as his large eyes widen, he saw Samuel standing over him. The human brought a hand to his lips and then uncovered the mage's mouth. He was hunched low to the ground, his sword drawn and ready.

"There's scouts on the mountainside. I think they're Dark Iron."

With a nod of his head, Samuel motioned for Briggs to wake their new companion and he moved toward Anora, not wanting anyone to be surprised during a possible attack.

Briggs had just made it across the smooth stone floor of the cave to Brett's side when he sensed that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he sucked in a quick breath.

Already, he could see stout figures in the mouth of the cave. Dark armor glimmered as the moonlight bounced off of it. The vain notion struck him that perhaps if they stayed quiet the dwarves would go away, but that hope was cut down before it could even properly form.

A shot rang out and the flash from the rifle left huge spots across Briggs' vision. Something grazed his ear and he let out a yelp. In an instant, Brett and Anora were up.

Even as Samuel met their first attackers with his shield, they heard shouts come from further down the slope.

Gritting his teeth, Briggs readied himself for the fight of his life.


	8. Chapter 8

So that fight hadn't gone very well at all.

Briggs sat with the others to the side of the Dark Iron camp, just far enough from the campfire that its light, but not its warmth, could reach them.

They'd managed to take out a whole two of their attackers before they'd been overwhelmed. Well, not quite. It was more accurate to say that Brett—injured, cranky Brett—had taken out two of the dwarves before realizing that he was the only one who hadn't been captured. Even as a plan had been forming in the warlock's eerie eyes, he'd been overtaken by a few dwarven mages.

Despite Samuel's gusto, he'd had trouble keeping up with their enemies. Heck, he'd been missing them almost as much as Briggs was. For such stout creatures, they were surprisingly agile. Anora had done her best to keep everyone healed, but there had just been too many of their enemies.

Oddly enough, though, even with all of them in the same dire predicament, Brett was the one who was panicking the most. He kept peering over the faces of their captors, counting quietly. If a dwarf got up to take a piss, when he came back, Brett was inspecting his face to make sure it was the same dwarf. In the few, fleeting minutes that he was sure of his headcount, his gaze was toward the sky, as though he expected the dragon that had attacked him earlier to show up at any minute.

Samuel didn't help any when he muttered, "I guess we should have taken that port when we had the chance."

The sheer hatred behind the warlock's scathing expression sent chills through Briggs' whole body.

That had been almost an hour ago, and even without their captors threatening them to be quiet, silence had reigned ever since.

While Briggs and his companions had been stuck in a stoic, grim silence, their enemies had been reveling in a victory won and paying respects to their fallen comrades. In other words, they had basically been drinking since they'd made camp. The few sober ones left were having to keep an eye on their friends to make sure no one fell into the fire or onto their own weapons and so it left their prisoners to themselves.

Briggs hadn't thought much of it until Brett had brought his hands in front of him, free of his shackles. When the gnome had peeked around the man to see what had become of them—they were magic resistant and actually suppressed any spells, so he hadn't conjured fire to melt it—he'd found that it looked as though their lock had been scratched to pieces.

So those claws weren't just for show, though…they still didn't look big enough to have worked all the way through that metal. Keeping an eye on the dwarves and sky, he'd edged toward Samuel who sat nearest him and picked the lock somehow. He was careful in his movements, always stilling and looking at the sky if a dwarf happened a glance their way.

He shifted places with Samuel to free Anora and then with her to free Briggs. When they were all carefully rubbing their wrists, still behind their backs so as not to alert their captors, Anora leaned toward him, frowning.

"This is all well and good," she whispered, "but how are we to escape? They're more powerful than we are and, as I told you before, I can't leave until I find what I came for."

"Not to worry," Brett smiled at her, "I have a plan." He hesitated looking at Anora and then pointed toward a low hanging outcrop. "We're going to trick them." He paused to scan the sky again. "You're probably the most lithe of us all, so do you think you can get up there?"

She glanced toward the rock and then frowned back at him. Her pale blue gaze was narrowed. "What good will that do?"

"You'll need a good clear view of the battlefield."

She hesitated, glancing toward the dwarves and then toward Brett. However, it was Samuel who spoke. He looked somewhat defeated, but he nodded toward the lady elf. "It's the only plan we have and this guy seems to know what he's doing." He paused before muttering, shamefully, "We should be thankful he hasn't just ditched us."

"Oh, I would never." Brett muttered, though as he said it, Briggs noted that the human had been looking at him.

Though Anora still seemed uneasy, Briggs smiled at her reassuringly. "We're all in this together."

Her expression grew gentler and she nodded before carefully creeping off. The other three of them tried to sit as quietly and inconspicuous as they could, but Anora had barely slipped out of sight behind a few other rocks when they heard the stomp of boots and turned to see that one of the dwarves stood over them, axe brandished and scowl in place.

"Aye, boys. Where be the lass?"

Brett gave Samuel and Briggs a look to make sure they didn't say anything and then shrugged a little. "Who can say?"

The dwarf frowned. "Ye sent her fer help, did ye?"

Briggs realized that Brett was writing something in the dirt behind him as he frowned.

"She left us," Briggs interjected. Perhaps their warlock did want them to stay quiet, but he didn't want whatever his plan was to be ruined if the dwarf caught wind. Their captor turned on the gnome, brown scrunching together. "She left ye? And ye didn't think to call out or nothin'?"

Thinking quickly, Briggs finally shrugged. "She's pretty?" He wasn't sure if that would be a good enough excuse until the dwarf broke out into a grin, leaning down.

"A little fella like ye be into those tall lasses, eh?"

However, before Briggs could try to think of what made those thin creatures attractive to support his lie, Brett jerked to his feet and hit his palm into an intricate, runic circle carved into the ground. The light flared up and their guard jolted.

However, despite the flare and show, nothing came of the spell.

The dwarf frowned, hefting up his axe. "The hell ye doing?"

"Light save us!" Samuel hissed, jerking backwards to his feet.

Before the guard could even register that none of them were still in their cuffs, the human pointed past them, to where they'd been waiting for Anora to show up.

Briggs glanced over his shoulder and his jaw dropped. There, on the ledge, rather than their slender companion, was a creature that he'd only heard of in legends and exaggerated bar boasts.

A dragon.

Its red scales gleamed, even in the dim light and it's tremendous wings arched out from its body like the canopy of a massive tree, casting darkness beneath them in the night. The great horns on its nose looked dangerously sharp, but what really caught Briggs' attention were its pale blue eyes.

Frightening as it was, something about it seemed odd. It almost looked as though it were as surprised as everyone else to be towering there.

Even as he narrowed his eyes, shouts erupted from the camp, capturing both the dragon's and Briggs' attention. With a roar, the dragon lunged toward a dwarf as it tried to stab it with a blade.

Before Briggs knew what was happening, he'd been tucked under Brett's arm and the warlock was running. He had an eerie grace as he hopped from rock to rock, allowing himself to slide down small slopes only to vault up others. While it was degrading to be carried so, Briggs had to admit that there was no way he'd have been able to retreat as quickly.

A thought struck him abruptly.

"W-wait!" He struggled to look around when Brett ignored him. "Where is Anora?" "Don't worry about her," Brett muttered, his pace not even wavering.

"We can't just leave her! What if that dragon—"

"Don't you get it?" Brett hissed, glancing down just long enough to give Briggs an annoyed glare. "She  _was_  the damned dragon!"

Briggs stared up at the warlock, stunned. And then, he thought of the man's plan. "You used her as bait!"

"She was a lot bigger than I thought she'd be," Brett muttered, actually pausing in his step to glance toward the sky. "I'm sure she's fine. Probably had a nice little meal, too."

Even as Briggs struggled for something to argue with—she had been a big dragon—he realized that he couldn't hear any other footsteps. For a moment, he was relieved, but then he frowned, perking up and struggling to peer around them from his awkward spot under the warlock's arm. "Where's Samuel?"

"If he was fool enough to stay back to fight the dragon, then I don't care."

With a scowl of his own, Briggs focused his rattled thoughts and blinked out of the man's grip. As he thudded to the ground, caught off guard by blinking straight through the air, Brett whirled around with that same uncanny speed. He caught Briggs by the neck of his robe and glared. "We are not going back."

"Well I'm not going anywhere without them." Briggs tried to stand a little taller. "And neither are you."

Brett's eye twitched before he tried to force a smile. "Tell you what, you port me to Ironforge and you can go back and save your little buddy and your dragon. I won't stop you."

"No."

"You don't want to make me angry, you little—"

"Now you're the one who doesn't get it," Briggs muttered, pointing over his shoulder in the direction he thought the camp was in. "They took our stuff. Even if I didn't want to help everyone—which I do—I don't have any portal runes on me." He paused as Brett's eye twitched. The warlock released his shirt and Briggs tugged his robe back into place. "So either you help me save them, or you can wander around until you find another mage who can port you."

 


	9. Chapter 9

Briggs edged up to the ruins of the camp, doing his best to stretch up on his stubby legs so that he could see over the rock he was hiding behind. While he doubted that they'd fled for more than thirty minutes, the route downhill had been considerably quicker than the way back up. Several times they'd had to wind their way through small gullies between the rocks and even went into a tunnel or two. During one such excursion into the underground, they'd heard the beating of wings echoing down one of the ventilation shafts of the cave. Briggs had wondered if it had been Anora, but Brett had hissed that if he tried to call out, he'd regret it.

As it was, it had been almost a full day before they made it back to where they'd last seen Samuel and their belongings. Though Brett seemed unphased, Briggs didn't want to be caught again and had walked the last few yards on his tiptoes, hoping that if anyone was still there, they wouldn't hear him coming.

"Your attempts at stealth are pointless. Any survivors left hours ago." Brett muttered, stalking past him. Char marks scorched the earth and Briggs plugged his nose as the smell of cooked dwarf flesh permeated the air. It stuck to his clothes and for the first time in his life he regretted his large nose. Brett didn't seem deterred by the carnage in the least. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He seemed to revel in it. The warlock caught Briggs watching him with reprimand in his eyes and frowned, reining in his glee. "We'll look through the wreckage, find your portal runes, and then  _you_  will send me to Ironforge and  _I_  will leave you to do as you please."

"We have to find Samuel!"

"You have to find him. I've no obligation to the wretch."

"I would argue that you do, Brathrion."

Briggs whirled toward the gentle, yet angry voice, only pausing for a second when he noted the way Brett's body went rigid at the name. Anora sat on the edge of the very outcrop where she'd turned into a dragon, her legs crossed at the ankles and swinging slowly.

For an instant, the vain notion gripped Briggs that Anora had merely had an illusion cast upon her, that she couldn't have truly been anything other than the simple elf he'd met before. Then the wind blew that awful smell to him again and he knew.

She really was a dragon.

Her form was different now, as though whatever spell Brett had cast upon her had affected her in more ways that just that immediate exposure. She slipped from her roost and sauntered toward them, clawed hands—much like Brett's—swinging at her sides. Briggs could just barely make out slip pupils behind her softly glowing eyes. However, even with the changes, Brigs found that she still had a gentle presence around her. She gave him a fleeting, sympathetic smile and then glared at Brett.

"I'll be willing to part ways with one as despicable as you and not hassle you with dilemmas of a conscience you clearly do not have, if you will hand over the reins."

For the first time—in the albeit brief time Briggs had known him—Brett didn't seem annoyed or arrogant. Instead, he was simply puzzled. "Reins?"

Anora's eyes gleamed brighter. "Don't be coy."

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

Leaping the last few feet, Anora gripped his collar. "You think we're stupid?"

"In a word? Yes."

With a scowl, Anora shoved him. As she did so, it occurred to Briggs that Brett wasn't afraid of her. Before Anora could attempt to re-rail her accusations, Briggs pointed up at Brett, dismayed. " _You're_  a dragon, too!"

Both creatures stopped and looked at him. Brett's expression blanked for a minute and then he squatted down, lightly clutching the top of Briggs' head. "Yes, I am. Now, if you don't want to end up like these dwarves, you'll find your portal runes and—"

"You can't send him to Ironforge!" Anora cried out. She knelt beside Briggs, carefully pulling him from the other dragon's grip. "Listen. I am Anorastrasza of the Red Flight. We are charged with protecting life—"

"As you can see with the corpses littered around us."

"Just because I treasure life doesn't mean I will not defend myself."

"First it's 'protect', now it's 'treasure'. She's clearly making this up as she goes," Brett—Brathrion as Anora had called him—tried to drag Briggs toward him. "She probably ate Samuel. I'll cover you while you find your belongings and—"

"Enough!" Briggs shouted, darting out of both their reaches. He glared from one to the other before looking at Brathrion. "If you're a dragon—"

"Did we somehow un-establish this?"

"—then why can't you just fly away? Why do you need a portal?" Briggs crossed his arms and for the first time, Brathrion looked surprised.

"Knowing the Black Flight, he probably wants to devour the leaders of the city and send it into chaos," Anora quipped bitterly.

"No…look," Brathrion finally sighed. "My brother is trying to kill me. This form is harder to track than that of a giant flying lizard."

Briggs eyed him. "Why?"

"Because he caught me helping some gnomes escape from our brethren's grasp."

"He's lying," Anora hissed. "The Black Flight was corrupted. They don't help anyone now—"

"And the Red Flight harbors such Light-blessed creatures—"

"Compared to you, yes." Anora muttered a spell as Brathrion tried to argue further and his voice died on his tongue. As he gripped his throat, glared, and then began to carve scrawling symbols on the ground, Anora looked back at Briggs. "Listen, not so long ago, the orcs used awful magic to enslave my flight, the red dragons. We are free now, but there is nothing that will ever right this injustice." Resolution flickered in her eyes. "All we can do is ensure that this never happens again. That's why I'm here. We've learned that the Black Flight has created some type of enchanted reins."

A light flashed near Brathrion, much the way his last spell had worked. However, rather than interrupt, he stayed quiet, listening to the other dragon as she spoke.

"The reins subjugate the wearer, forcing them to bend to the will of whoever owns them. I came here to find those reins and destroy them before they can be replicated or used. No one deserves so ill a fate." She paused, paling a little. "No one…."

For a brief moment, silence reigned over them.

Brathrion was the one to break it. "That must be my punishment," he whispered. "My brother intends to make me a mortal's plaything."

"There's poetry there, I'm sure," Anora muttered.

"I told you I was saving gnomes."

"And I don't believe you."

"Why would I be punished for doing something bad if my flight revels in destruction and cruel actions as much as you think?"

Though Anora seemed stumped, she still eyed him, untrusting. "Alright, fine. You're a fugitive of your flight. He still shouldn't send you to Ironforge."

Briggs fell into thought as the dragons began to bicker again. Finally, he made up his mind. Casting a quick glamour to recapture their attention, he motioned to them. "If you help me save Samuel and promise not to hurt anyone, I'll send you to Ironforge." He looked at Anora. "And then, if you think I can help, I'll come with you to find the reins, so that we can destroy them."

Anora smiled gently as Briggs spoke, leaning forward to clasp his hand when he was done. "Thank you. You're a good soul."

Brathrion scoffed, but stayed put, the only indication he was willing to work with them.


	10. Chapter 10

With any luck, they would be out of that damnable mountain within the next hour or so. While the thought of adventure still sent shivers down his spine, Briggs had to say he was more than ready to be done with this one.

He'd half wondered if—when they found him—they would learn that Samuel was really a dragon of some kind, as well. Everyone seemed to be sprouting wings around him, so to speak. It was curious though, how desperately both dragons tried to hide what they were. It had puzzled him, until he'd remembered Brathrion saying that his brother was on the lookout for a giant scaly lizard.

It certainly put things into perspective.

As the days had gone on—three of them, to be exact—he'd been forgetting that he was around dragons at all. With Samuel missing, they'd assumed that the dwarves had taken him and had followed their tracks to the notorious Blackrock Mountain. There, they'd certainly seemed mortal enough when their little trio had jumped a few guards near the entrance to the dwarven city in the bottom of the mountain. Rather than overwhelming their enemies with fire breath or tail swipes, it had been simple knocks to the head. That and a few fire bolts from Briggs, not that he was sure they'd done much.

Within five minutes of their interrogation, Brathrion had been cursing enough that Briggs was sure even the most weathered, drunken dwarven warrior would pale. Their prisoners certainly were. It turned out that Samuel had been taken to the Spire rather than the city. The dwarves had been none too happy to have their prisoner taken by dragonkin, either.

Even as Briggs and Anora had debated what to do with the dwarves, Brathrion had killed them—though it hadn't been until they'd relinquished their garb. Briggs had been mortified. While he hadn't any love for the Dark Iron, somehow it seemed wrong to kill them in their own home. And to steal their clothes.

Brathrion had insisted that they would need to blend in, however. Even as Anora reluctantly agreed that there were more pressing issues than a few dead dwarves, the black dragon had kicked the bodies into the bubbling lava below and Briggs had cringed, praying that the whole lot of them had indeed been dead before they hit that molten lake.

Through a bit of sorcery, they were able to tailor the gear to fit them and Brathrion had declared himself the leader of their little band, stating that they would avoid the dragonkin if at all possible and pretend to be a part of some cult while they were in the Spire. But only until they found a rune.

Honestly, the dragon had been hellbent on just staying in the dwarven city until they came across and killed a well-equipped mage there, but Briggs had hastily declared that the runes had to be created just so or they wouldn't work. A Blackrock rune would only ever be able to make a portal to the mountain, while an Ironforge rune would be able to take them to Ironforge.

It was a flat out lie, but neither dragon seemed versed enough with 'mortal' spellcasting to argue. Thus they'd headed up into the spire and spent another day and a half painstakingly slipping past patrols and doing their best to be noticed by as few people as possible.

The orcs simply dismissed them as cultists, as Brathrion had planned and it was in pure astonishment that Briggs now stood before the cell that Samuel had been thrown into. He was injured and some of the marks on the man—most of his armor was missing—implied that he'd been tortured.

For what?

Briggs reached into his pocket, feeling the portal rune he'd picked up from those guards as he closed his fingers around it. He'd been so careful when he'd found it nestled in the pockets of that robe, terrified that somehow Brathrion would know and he would demand to be sent away from this place, leaving them without another way to escape.

Anora's fingers shifted to claws and scales rippled up her arms as she gripped the bars to the cell and jerked them outward, allowing her room to slip in. As her skin returned to normal, she knelt beside the injured warrior and gave his hair a sympathetic pat. Casting a quick spell, Briggs realized why she'd always 'conserved her mana' through the less serious scrapes and bruises, and why she'd healed Brathrion in private. Rather than the light answering her call, the cell lit up with a soft green radiance. He'd seen druids cast similar spell sand it occurred to him that had she used her magic, it would have been obvious fairly quickly that she was no priest.

As soon as Samuel came to, he startled, jerking away from his savior. "S-stay back, beast!"

Briggs scurried awkwardly through the twisted bars, reaching out toward his traveling companion. "It's okay! Anora…strasss…"

"Anora was fine before and it's fine now."

"Anora is a friendly dragon."

Samuel's expression spoke volumes to how little he believed the gnome's words. However, when Briggs pointed out how Anora had healed the man not moments before, crimson colored the warrior's ears. "I should be grateful then," he mumbled. However, when he looked them over, he paused. "I don't suppose you know where they took my brother's sword?"

Briggs stared at him. "Is that how they caught you?" When the human nodded, Briggs' shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened to it."

Samuel stared down at the grungy floor for a moment before shrugging. "Can't keep anything forever…"

He sat there another moment before Anora softly urged them on. "We need to find the reins. And a portal rune."

Briggs felt guilty suddenly. He reached into his pocket to touch the portal rune again. It wasn't fair to Samuel that he should have to stay in this awful place. However, as he opened his mouth to tell them of their way home, Samuel rose to his feet. He spat on the ground, angry. "Get me a lump of metal if you have to and I'll fight. Fucking dragons…"

He paused to eye Anora and then Brathrion, but the former merely sighed, sympathy still playing on her face, while the latter spastically looked about the halls, waiting for someone to come and label them enemies.

They carefully made their way from the dungeons, though they'd barely gotten far when the clatter of guards' armor filled the halls. In seconds, they were surrounded by dragonkin. Brathrion let out a low hiss and then crouched toward the ground, fire already licking his fingertips. However, before he could cast a single spell, Anora slipped up behind him and slid a small clasp of silver over his ear. It was long and shaped in the form of a dragon, its wings arching away from his ear as the tail, head, and legs curled around the skin.

Runes slithered across his skin like snakes and he fell to his knees with a startled gasp. Anora ignored him, instead stepping away from him and wringing her hands as though whatever she'd just done weighed heavily on her heart. She turned toward one of the side halls. "I did as you asked. It's your turn."

Briggs had knelt beside Brathrion to try to remove the source of the man's pain, but a spear had thudded in between the two. The owner used the butt of the spear to toss Briggs back into Samuel and the human caught him before he could tumble into the ground. A few of the dragoons dragged Brathrion's limp body away from the others and disappeared down one of the halls with him. The remaining dragonkin watched the cornered trio with bemused expressions on their scaly features.

Looking back at Anora, Briggs frowned. The guards had parted and a man stood before the small group. His hair and skin and eyes reminded Briggs of Brathrion and he felt his heart sink. This had to be Brathrion's brother.

An orc had arrived with the dragon in human form. He wore engineer's goggles, but even with his eyes covered, Briggs could see a nervous sheen of sweat on him. The creature shifted uncomfortably as the dragon motioned to him. "This is the orc who figured out how to combine engineering and enchantments to make the reins function properly." Even as the orc stood a bit straighter, a spear's blade thrust out of his chest from behind. The orc stood there in stunned disbelief for a moment before the weapon diseappeared with a wet smack back through his flesh. He collapsed to the ground without a single utterance. As his body hit the floor, Anora shivered.

"What of his notes?"

"You really think I would let mortals keep such things?"

"Fine," she didn't sound overly sure, but she edged back toward Samuel and Briggs. "All that remains is the mortals' belongings and—"

"I think not." The man motioned for the guards to take them. "I appreciate you finding my brother for me."

Anora hissed, but even as her fingers extended into claws, Briggs sprung into action. He might not have been a master spell weaver, but he'd seen plans go south enough to know when a tactful retreat was in order. Whipping out his portal rune, the spell flew from his tongue. He gripped Samuel's hand. For a second, he considered leaving the dragons to their infighting, but then…Anora hadn't betrayed  _him_.

She'd turned on Brathrion, so that the rest of them could get away, hadn't she?

Briggs reached for Anora's hand as he flung himself into the twisting nether. He thought he felt his fingers close around hers as his world was consumed with brilliant colors, but when they faded and he hit the stone floor of Ironforge, she was not with them.

Samuel's voice rang out, drawing him from his thoughts. "Close the portal before they come through!"

Even as the warrior shouted, one of the dragonkin appeared almost on top of Briggs. It barely managed a roar before the guards converged upon it. At the same time, the mage trainers' and a few higher leveled adventurers' chants drown out the clash of steel as each of them reacted with the same thought, to close off the portal before a proper invasion could commence.

Briggs stumbled to his feet, horrified. "Anora!"

He looked around the room, thinking that perhaps she had slipped through and made a run for it, even as Samuel had called the alarm. However, he quickly surmised that only two of them had made it back, when one of the guards thought to ask about the elven lass he'd left with. Baulking, he sunk to his knees.

No sooner had his guilt overwhelmed him, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Samuel knelt beside him. "I'm sorry we couldn't help her." Though his words were sincere, they lacked remorse. What he was really sorry for was that Briggs was torn up about it, not that they'd left the dragon behind at the mercy of her own kind.

Briggs wanted to scream and throw fire blasts at everything within range, but instead, he nodded, numb. "I'm sorry we lost your sword."

"At least we have our lives," Samuel forced a smile. "For what it's worth, you're the best damned mage I've ever run with."

Despite the human's kind intent, Briggs merely rose to his feet and shuffled down the halls, back to his home. No matter what anyone said, he couldn't help but remember the way Anora had sat in that inn, the way she'd been so determined and so nice. Even if she was a dragon, her loss weighted heavy on his heart.


	11. Chapter 11

Briggs frowned at the pages of his book as a sharp rapping interrupted his thoughts. It had been four months since his last adventure. For four months he'd tried to distract himself with translating one of the books his father had been working on ages ago.

He'd been trying to tell himself that this was the life he was meant for. Adventuring had been fun, but when it came down to it, he was a truly terribly party member.

After their escape, it had taken Briggs a few days before hunger had finally forced him out into the world to replenish his pantries. He hadn't wanted to hear people whispering about how he'd let the pretty elf die or how he'd nearly let the dragons invade Ironforge. But he couldn't very well stay hidden his whole life.

It had been as he trotted those ancient halls that he'd first noticed the difference. The guards nodded to him with respect and a few people whispered, but their expressions held awe rather than disgust. As he'd wandered straight past the WANTED board, he'd heard someone say his name. Looking back, he'd paused, realizing that it had been one of the guards talking to a few adventurers. He'd even pointed to the gnome. As the others' gazes had followed, curious, Briggs had hunched his shoulders and hurried back to his task, pretending that all he could hear was his grumbling stomach.

While he'd been busy mourning and hating his inadequacies, word had gotten around that he'd been daring enough to brave a dragon's lair. Further, Samuel—stoic, frowning Samuel—had talked him up as saving his life and, as a result, nigh every adventuring party since had come to him asking if he would risk the dangers of the world again.

However, with each party, he hadn't seen adventure greeting him. Instead, he'd seen more lives that he would fail. More people who would give him a chance, only to die writhing in pain, cold and alone in the cruel world. Thus he'd turned away every one of them and had eventually settled for simply growling through the door for people to leave him be without even bothering to listen to whatever fantastical journey they had planned.

Today was proving to be more of a pain than usual, however.

When his grumbled 'go away' failed to quiet the knocking and leave him to finish—start, really, as he hadn't been able to focus on the task—his latest translation efforts, he slipped from his desk and scurried over to the door.

"I said 'Go away'!"

"And I'll have you say it to my face."

Briggs blinked. He knew that voice. Upon opening his door, he blinked as he stared up to see Samuel standing there, shining, new plate armor adorning him. The human shifted his weight, apparently as surprised as Briggs that the door's hinges still worked.

"Hey."

"Hi," Briggs replied, flummoxed.

"You can't save everyone," Samuel blurted. As much as Briggs didn't want to have this conversation, he couldn't slam the door. Nor could he remember any silencing spells. Samuel continued. "You can't save everyone. And it hurts and it feels like a huge failure when someone falls in combat. Even so, we can't just stop in our tracks and give up when it happens. An outstretched hand can save someone." He turned to pace the narrow stoop. "You saved me and since, I've saved a few people. Which really means you saved them because without you, I wouldn't have been there and then…" He frowned. "This sounded much better in my head."

Even as clumsy a ramble as it had been, Briggs couldn't stop the corners of his lips from turning up slightly. "I suppose that's true…all of it." The warrior nodded. "I take it you're here for more than an awkward pep talk?"

"Actually," Samuel motioned vaguely over his shoulder. "I just got a quest to go to Felwood and the thing is, I hear there's all kinds of magical monsters there. So I could really use a mage."

"I haven't been taking requests," Briggs stated.

"So I've heard," Samuel nodded again. He crossed his arms, one hand coming up to cup his chin. "But the thing is, when I consider who I'd rather be stuck with, I'd choose the guy who infiltrated a city overrun with enemies over some top of their class braggart any day."

Briggs fidgeted. He hadn't thought of it like that. Samuel's eyes danced as he watched Briggs for his answer. That light in them…it was hope. Someone had seen just how readily he failed and still wanted his company…

"Felwood, huh? That's all the way over in Kalimdor."

"It is."

He shifted a little. "Will we—you—be going through Theramore on the way? I've heard that Lady Proudmore's tower is beautiful. And I've never been on a boat."

"We can take that route if you want."

Briggs felt a familiar itch in him and he hesitated. "I suppose…I could stand to get out again."

"Excellent," Samuel grinned. It was the first time Briggs had ever seen him smile and he was a bit taken aback by how much younger the warrior looked when his features weren't overshadowed with grim determination. "I figure we can take a griffon to Menethil Harbor and then buy supplies there."

"That sounds good." It occurred to the gnome that he'd never been to the harbor before, either, and he smiled at the thought that it had been on his list of places to go. His smile widened when he realized that he hadn't thought of his list in some time. "Let me gather my staff and a few things and I'll be right out. You can wait inside if you want."

Samuel bowed his head as he stepped in and Briggs darted into his back room to gather what he'd need. A part of him still felt empty from his last adventure, but it felt right as he tossed a few portal runes and books into a small satchel. As he stepped back into the first room, he stopped in his tracks. Samuel was stooped next to his desk, idly flipping through the book.

Hurrying over, Briggs carefully closed the book and tucked it into his bags. As he folded the pitiful beginnings of a translation and slipped it into his bags as well, Samuel cocked his head. "I've never seen that writing before."

"It's very old. It was something my father started a long time ago." Briggs hesitated and shrugged. "I hear boats take a while, so maybe I'll have time to work on it on the way."

Samuel nodded. "So…what's this about a twilight?"

"Oh?"

"Your paper. It said something about twilight?"

Briggs smiled, taking Samuel's hand and ushering him out. "I don't really know what it's about. Like I said, it's a task I sort of inherited from my father."

"If you're busy—"

Briggs stepped out onto his porch and laughed as Samuel darted out past him into the grand hall so that he could stand upright again. It felt good to laugh. "It's nothing important, I'm sure. Just some ancient tales."

With a shrug, Samuel grinned back. "Alright then."

"So, do we have anyone else coming with us?"

"I was thinking we'd just see where the adventure takes us," Samuel shrugged. "After all, I met a pretty good mage last time." He paused. "Unless you have anyone in mind?"

With a curt, disbelieving laugh, Briggs shook his head. "Your plan sounds fine to me."


	12. Chapter 12

Nefarian stood within the deeper recesses of the Blackwing Descent, watching as several dragonkin hoisted the corpse of a red dragon up on chains, leaving it on display high above the central chamber.

Among the workers was a sleek black drake. The drake's scales had already begun to dull from constantly being overworked and overburdened, and a small tear in one wing festered with infection. Nefarian sauntered over to the creature, tilting his head. An orc sat upon the dragon's shoulder blades, his coarse voice commanding the creature's every step.

Even as the drake let out a low hiss, Nefarian heard footsteps approaching from behind. A metal whip cracked into some of the drake's scales and the creature let out a strangled wail, unable to relinquish its hold on the chains in its mouth.

Warchief Rend stopped beside the dragon lord. His eyes were on the red dragon, dangling lifelessly in the air. With a casual laugh, Nefarian looked up at the ceiling. "Come to watch? I'm sure she'll be the first of many trophies."

The warchief spat. "I wanted to see what became of the wench who killed my lead enchanter."

"We taught her a lesson, I assure you." Nefarian paused, a dangerous light in his eyes as he turned to watch the orc beside him. "Or perhaps you are bitter that she was able to destroy all the notes on how to subjugate her kind?"

"Your kind," the warchief grunted, eyes never leaving the dead dragon.

"You think I had something to do with your innovator's death?"

"No one saw that dragon sneak through his quarters where he kept copies of his notes." Warchief rend frowned. "They saw plenty of yours wandering through. More than usual."

"Such accusations can be the end of friendships, warchief." Nefarian shrugged and motioned toward the drake. Despite its continued obedience, it was watching them from the corner of its eye. "Did I not offer you a consolation prize?"

"I don't want to ride your belligerent little brother."

Nefarian shrugged. "So be it." He smiled faintly, looking every bit the predator. "His new master seems fond of him, anyway."

Displeased with the dragon lord's lack of concern in regards to the accusations, the warchief stalked off. When he was far enough away that he couldn't hear, Nefarian called to Maloriak in draconic. "Send our beloved warchief a few more eggs for his chromatic experiments, would you?"

The mad scientist bowed and lopped off.

When the red dragon had been hoisted into place and all the chains were secured, Nefarian walked up to the weary drake. With barely a nod of acknowledgement to the rider, Nefarian reached out and patted the drake's muzzle. Even as it growled at him, baring its teeth, the orc uttered a harsh word and the creature settled down.

"Do you want to hear a secret, dear brother?" Nefarian's eyes formed upside down cresents, his words still in draconic so that the orc wouldn't understand. "You should be thanking me for this idea. Our dear sister didn't take too kindly to the scrutiny the Twilight's Hammer received from your last adventures. She wanted me to trick you into revealing yourself near a human settlement so that a fierce dragon could be vanquished and the people appeased, but I think that in her anger she was being most unwise." He paused as the drake glared at him. "There's a reason I'm in charge of this flight in our father's absence. I  _know_  how to run things and I  _know_  how to make the punishment fit the crime." Nefarian paused and looked at the red dragon's corpse, tilting his head. Finally, he glanced toward the orc rider. "I don't know. I think she could stand to be a few feet lower. Do you think you could manage that?"

With a quick nod, the orc cracked his whip.


	13. Chapter 13

Bartholomew Anderson "Blackheart" dove to the side as the head of the dragon lord, Nefarian, crashed into the ground, nearly crushing him into bone dust. His exposed bones creaked and a few hairline fractures snaked up them from the abuse. One of the healers, an orc shaman, scoffed as he saw Blackheart push himself back to his feet and hobble toward the rest of the raid.

"Pitiful sack of bones…" the orc muttered, turning away.

Blackheart didn't bother to protest the orc's behavior. Since Garrosh's rise to power, the Horde was becoming more and more like his bones. Fractured with little hope of repair.

Many of the non-orcs in his guild had been replaced with orc recruits whose only real talent resided in their arrogance. Fortunately—or unfortunately, he hadn't yet decided—he was, simply put, too damned good at what he did to be replaced. At least for now.

Dropping to sit on the floor, he rubbed one of his patellae as he watched his guild. The raid leader was distributing loot, but Blackheart knew better than to get his hopes up. Everything would be going to the newer members who 'needed' it more. It was boring to watch the fools with their die, rolling to see who got what and he let his gaze wander. It needn't go far, however.

A goblin had interrupted the glorious looting to argue with their guild leader. At first, he thought it was over a roll—those short bastards were such greedy little creatures—but as he listened in, he realized it was much more than that.

"…tellin' ya, ya can either have me in ya raids or I can keep tabs. Ya can't have both."

"Rather arrogant—" Oh the irony. "—of you to make demands."

"Look," the goblin looked nervous. Blackheart tried to remember his name. It was something like Fizzle or Fits or… He didn't care enough to wrack his brain for an answer. The goblin was still talking. "If I keep comin' with ya to raids, then people'll see me with ya. It'll be obvious that I ain't neutral.  _They'll_  burn me 'n then ya won't have tabs on  _their_  movements, either."

Their leader grumbled something too low for Blackheart to hear. When the goblin followed suit, Blackheart lost interest. Even as he let his attention wander yet again, he heard someone sit down beside him and turned to see that one of the only other remaining non-orcs had come over to join him. A troll hunter, Senta'ri Bonegrinder—why did all trolls and orcs need such violent names?—had plopped down beside him.

"Damn, mon. We shoulda skipped out on dis raid, yeh? Ain't nothin' innit fa us."

Blackheart stretched his legs out in front of him, grunting as his knee protested the motion. "I thought you were here for glory."

"Ah been hea fa one a dem dragon dogs. 'n dey kill it while Ah be tryin' ta tame it." Senta'ri spat to the side. "Basta'ds been laughin' 'bout it, too." He braced his arms against his knees as he slouched forward. "'n ya know dey ain't gonna give us nah credit fa de kill. Far as dey concerned, we was too buseh cowerin' in de background while dey slayed de dragons."

"You did feign death more than ten times."

"Ya seriousleh counted?"

"Seeing as they came after the person standing next to you every time—which, in case you forgot, was me—yes, I counted."

"De tank see mah arrow hit sometin', he stop hittin' it, mon. Ah been holdin' back 'n everehtin, makin' sure Ah don' pull nothin'." Senta'ri reached out and patted a charcoal colored cat that had sprawled out beside him. The creature's chest heaved from exhaustion, but it seemed no worse for the wear. As Blackheart inspected it, he saw a few long gashes running up the troll's arm. So he wasn't the only one not getting any heals.

He almost wished that could come to him as a surprise.

They both fell to silence, gazes turning back to the rest of their guild. The newer orcs were arguing over gear and that goblin had shuffled off to the side, rubbing one of his ears where it looked like he'd been cuffed. Blackheart idly wondered if that meant he'd be in attendance at the next raid or not, when the sound of hooves clomping against the stone floor interrupted his thoughts.

He saw a glimmer of green around him and felt his aches lessen. That same green washed over Senta'ri and then circled back to Blackheart. He didn't need to look to know it was the only tauren left in their guild offering him healing. When he'd first joined the guild, he'd gravitated toward the cow, Fluffy as he was affectionately called by most everyone—save the newer members, who just called him Cloudeddawn. It was odd how disgruntled the tauren could be when he was actually called by his name. Blackheart had preferred Fluffy's healing over that of their troll priest's, since hers burned his unholy person. He paused when he realized that she wasn't with them any longer. When had that happened?

The healing magic was constantly being refreshed and he frowned as he looked down to see that he seemed to be permanently enveloped in that soft green light. "You can stop now."

Fluffy thunked down next to him, opposite Senta'ri, and cast another heal. "One of these days, I'm gonna restore that missing half of your face."

"Great."

"You don't believe me, but—"

"I'd rather you stop. You're making me itch."

"That means it's working."

Senta'ri snickered.

Blackheart began to mutter a curse of tongues, but a hand slapped down on his shoulder and his brittle bones shuddered under the pressure. Looking up, he saw one of the guild's only orcs who didn't' have their head up Garrosh's ass—Ripper, another friendly name—was standing behind him. "No friendly fire, okay?"

"I would have to be friendly for that to happen."

The other's laugh and the sound was accompanied with a woman's laugh. That would be Miksa. The two orcs who weren't Garrosh's bitches, Blackheart amended his earlier thoughts silently. As a rogue who rarely spoke even when she wasn't sneaking around, he often forgot about Miksa.

Nodding toward the stairs that led out of that central chamber, Ripper grinned, his tusks emphasizing his mirth in a grotesque manner. When he was breathing, Blackheart would have been terrified to see that visage staring down at him. Now, it was almost a comfort.

Almost.

"Most everyone else is heading back to Orgrimmar, but I thought we could do some exploring," Ripper finally released Blackheart's shoulder. "Want to summon another demon and come with us?"

Blackheart rose to his feet. As he dusted off his robes—frowning to see that there was a new hole near one of his knees from where he'd had to dodge the dragon—he shrugged. "Lead on and if I'm feeling benevolent, I'll make sure you don't die."

His words echoed into the room and he realized that the rest of the guild had already taken their portal back. The goblin hadn't bothered to stick around and see if anyone might miss his portal. Nor had the two new orc mages. It figured.

With most everyone gone and almost every enemy vanquished, the draconic halls were eerily quiet as the five of them wandered through. Their steps echoed ahead of them, whispering back as foreign footfalls and leaving them on edge. This was the sort of thrill that really drove Blackheart. This was the sort of thing that could make him forget he was little more than a rotting husk, even if such moments were only fleeting. It wasn't until they'd grown accustomed to hearing that continuous drum that they were able to hear anything else.

Senta'ri picked up on it first and signaled for them to stop. When the echoes finally died away, Blackheart crossed his arms. Whatever it was the troll was listening for, he couldn't hear anything. Even as he tried to ask, Senta'ri had glared at him, bringing a finger up to his lips.

The hadn't moved for almost five minutes when the troll took off down the hall, vaulting over the pristine floor. His footfalls were almost as quiet as a rogue's and most of the others had trouble keeping up with him. Fortunately, Miksa was light on her feet as well. Both the hunter and rogue disappeared for a while, though it was Miksa who returned to show them the way. Excitement played on her features, though it was mixed with trepidation, as she led them through the room where they'd fought the blind dragon. "It's hurt," was all she would say.

A small ledge overlooking bubbling lava at the back of the room wound precariously along the wall for what seemed like an eternity before it finally came to a platform carved into the mountain. It looked like it had a regular door leading out on the other side, and Blackheart irritably wondered if the theatrics of daring the ledge had actually been necessary.

However, he quickly forgot such annoyances. Senta'ri knelt near the far side of the platform with his cat sitting attentively behind him as he bandaged a drake's foot. The creature wasn't anything spectacular. It was a black drake, one wing extended awkwardly up against the wall. Its scales were dull and its breathing was shallow. Sores where scales had been worn off and skin rubbed raw stood out like pestilent welts around the creature's saddle and reins. Cuts in the leather of its wings made certain that it would never fly…without help.

Blackheart frowned when he realized that fluffy hadn't adopted his usual caring attitude and healed the creature. When he looked to the shaman expectantly, the tauren shifted his weight. "It's from the black flight."

"And?"

"Aren't they all crazy?"

Blackheart looked back at the dragon. He'd heard those rumors, too, and it did make sense to get rid of it—to put it out of its misery, if nothing else—but then…

Senta'ri still held the creature's foot. He leaned forward and patted its long neck and frowned. "He be a livin' ting, yeh? He ain't needin' nah cruel treatmen'."

"Then we should put it down quickly," Fluffy murmured.

Before any of the others could argue or agree, Blackheart noticed a glimmer of gold near the creature's face. Had it opened its eyes?

Ripper nodded and stepped forward. His plated boot had barely made a single scuff against the ground when the drake lashed out. Its mace-like tail swung into fluffy and sent him crashing to the ground. It used its head to fling Senta'ri into ripper and caught Miksa with its wing. She dug her dagger into its leathery skin and the creature roared in pain. Blackheart's felguard charged forward, only to get slammed in the face with a surprisingly powerful clawed foot. Even as the party sought to recover, the dragon was already lashing out again, this time in Blackheart's direction.

He'd wasted time casting a soul stone onto Fluffy instead of using one of his chaos bolts. Thinking quickly as the creature lunged toward him, giant teeth open and ready to tear into his weak frame, Blackheart grabbed the dragon's reins and used them to swing himself out of the way of the attack.

The creature's momentum slowed almost instantly. The rage gone from it—or perhaps merely the energy—it stumbled to a stop, dragging Blackheart along with it, his fingers tangled in the long reins. However, even as Blackheart readied an attack anyway, he realized that the drake had laid back down. Its eyes were on him, though it hadn't even the energy to keep its head up. Worn though it was, there was a defiant fire in the creature's eyes.

He shivered. He knew that will, that determination. It was the same thing that kept his rotting sack of flesh and bones moving.

It was like looking in a mirror. A warped, dragon-y mirror.

He heard something moving toward them from behind and he whirled around to see Ripper charging forward. Without thinking, Blackheart stepped into the orc's path, holding out his hands. "Wait!"

Ripper's blade stopped about an inch into Blackheart's neck. The orc jerked back his weapon with a string of curses, though the familiar itch of Fluffy's healing magic distracted Blackheart from his guild mate's displeasure. He reached up and rubbed at the mending dead skin, his eyes still on the tauren. "Can you heal my dragon?"

"Your—" Ripper scoffed.

"Ya, mon," Senta'ri snapped. He'd recovered from being thrown and was already kneeling to inspect some of the other injuries the giant lizard bore. "Ah found 'im."

"That's not the problem," Ripper interjected before they could argue. "The black flight is corrupted. This creature can't be trusted."

"I don't see it telling us any stories," Blackheart muttered, despite himself. When the orc seemed less than amused, he leaned down to pat the creature's head. "This one is obviously a mount. Perhaps he was dropped on his head as a whelp or something."

A silence settled over them before Fluffy finally sighed. "How's this: I'll heal it enough for you to fly it out of here. Then, if it eats you, so be it. But you'll have to nurse it back to health the rest of the way, assuming it really is a stupid beast of burden."

Blackheart thought he saw a look of disdain sweep across the drake's face for a moment, but it merely closed its eyes and let out a soft groan. "…Fine."

~"~

Blackheart ordered his felguard to drop the deer's carcass in front of the dragon and sat down. It had been almost three months since he'd acquired his latest toy. At first, Senta'ri had come by daily to help tend to the giant lizard's wounds. One of the first things they'd done was remove the saddle, though even with the both of them twisting every which way, they hadn't been able to remove the reins from the creature's face. Figuring it was some sort of magic at work, they'd left it alone while they took care of the rest of the beast. Senta'ri had shown Blackheart how to restore a healthy sheen to the creature's scales and had been gleefully tending to the dragon's teeth and claws, cleaning them and the like.

Blackheart had suspected that the troll hoped he would grow weary of actually taking care of something for once and would relinquish his claim over it to him, but the hunter had had no such luck. Further, it didn't seem that the drake was overly fond of the troll. On his last visit, Senta'ri had brought his pet basilisk with him to show Blackheart why such care needed to be taken of scales when the dragon had lurched forward and eaten the hapless pet.

They hadn't seen the troll since.

As the felguard warily stepped away—it had also been present for the basilisk fiasco—the dragon sniffed the deer delicately and then ate it, a bored look on its face as it easily gulped down the carcass. When it had finished, it lay its head in the grass, eyes never leaving the withered warlock. Blackheart stared back at the beast. Resting his chin on his hands, he inspected the creature. It really did look better, not that he'd ever thank Senta'ri. Almost all of its scales had grown back, as had its muscles. There was power beneath that lithe frame and Blackheart had been itching to take it out flying, though he didn't want to push the creature too soon.

Tilting his head, the warlock stared into those intelligent eyes, wondering just what was the cut off for dragons and how some knew speech while others didn't. Finally, as more than a thought spoken aloud than anything else, he sighed. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking I prefer live meat."

Blackheart grew perfectly still. It had been a rhetorical question, one he'd often seen his mother pose to her tabby, back in that lifetime forever ago. He couldn't pull his thoughts together though, now that the creature had actually answered. The dragon sighed and sat up. It—he, it had definitely been a male voice—flapped its wings back and then brought one around so that it could inspect the clawed talon near the end. It reminded Blackheart of the way his brother had used to check his finger nails.

"I don't suppose your interest means I'll get to choose my meals from now on?"

"You can talk."

"I can do all manner of things," the dragon replied cooly, his voice smooth and confident.

Blackheart couldn't stop staring. "Yet you are a mount."

"It was punishment," the dragon explained, folding his wings against himself and then settling back down. He yawned and stretched his front legs forward, claws digging into the earth and leaving gash marks. "I tried to stop the Scourge during its early formation. Because I nearly dragged my whole flight into the conflict, I was turned into a mount."

"Bollocks."

"It's true," The dragon's tailed thudded lazily over the ground, almost as though it were wagging. "Had my brethren sided with me, you'd still be breathing."

"Tell me the truth."

"I was  _playfully_  sabotaging my flight's work and was reined in, pardon the pun." The dragon's humor was gone. It muttered something in draconic and Blackheart frowned.

"Why would you actually admit that?" He paused, an idea forming. "Tell me why."

"Oh, ho. The mortal learns the trick. I'd offer you a treat, but that'd be a little backwards, all things considered." The dragon spat. "It's the reins." He tried to claw his face. "They bind me to an owner."

"To whoever holds the reins?"

"If it were so simple, I would fly away and make sure no one touched them again." The dragon took in a dramatic breath and lay his head down again. When he breathed out, the grass began to turn to embers and smolder. "Once you touch the reins, you're my owner until someone kills you. Then the next to touch the reins inherits me."

"And there's no way around it?"

"Hmmm…" the dragon rolled his eyes toward the sky, as though trying desperately to consider the facts. "I suppose if something had a strong enough magical resistance, it could override the part about needing to kill you to become my master. I would still be bound by the reins themselves, though." He sighed wistfully, starting a few small fires in front of him. As he watched the smoke twirl lazily heavenward, he added, "I can't think of any such creature in all creation with a resistance that high, though."

"So you're cursed to forever ferry others through the sky."

"Indeed."

"So you are mine and  _must_  do whatever I say? Because I touched the reins?"

"Mmmm…" the dragon nodded. "Oh, I'm Brathrion, by the way. So kind of you to ask, Bartholomew." He lifted his head and brought one of his feet down onto the nearest fire to smother it. He lifted his foot to peer beneath it as though to make sure it had indeed gone out. "So we're clear, a little kindness goes a long way."

Blackheart stiffened, abruptly remembering his guild mates' earlier warnings. The black flight could not be trusted.

The dragon—Brathrion kept talking. "If you'll give me lenience to talk when I please and change form when I please, I'd be happy to be your ferryman." The dragon must have seen the skepticism on the warlock's face, for he quickly added, "If you don't, you'd better make sure every command is airtight. Otherwise, the first time you slip up, I'll kill you myself."

The forsaken laughed. He dealt with demons every day. Surely he could handle a single, lowly drake. "I see no reason we can't benefit from each other. I'll take your offer, Brathrion."

Instantly, the dragon's form glowed and twisted, growing smaller and smaller until it was the form of a tanned human man with long, dark hair standing in front of Blackheart instead. The man breeched the space between them and extended his hand to the forsaken, a mischievous grin across his handsome features. "Deal."

 


	14. Chapter 14

It wouldn't be long now.

Soon, the only time he would feel the wind across his body would be when  _he_  wanted to. The only time he would share the company of another would be when  _he_  so desired.

The warlock had been so easy to manipulate. Burn down a few human settlements and it was like they'd been best friends forever. Throw a few truths around willingly and the simple creature believed his lies. He would be more powerful free. He would be able to raze all of Stormwind, or at least a good portion of it, if the reins were gone. Blackheart had relished the idea. He'd gone on and on about the whys of it, but Brathrion had only listened closely enough so that he could parrot back enough information to make it seem like he'd been hanging off the creature's every word.

They'd begun to experiment on ways to break his bindings and he was sure they had it. With just a few more ingredients, he'd be free to do whatever he wanted, even devouring that loathsome warlock if he felt like it.

He doubted he would, though. Abandoning the creature would like leave for a much more satisfying reaction than just killing it.

He tried to stay still as he sat in Stormwind's market district. One of those precious ingredients had been a pain to find. They'd gone to the one place in all the world it grew to find that it had already been harvested and not by anyone they could throw coin at easily. No, it had to have been a gleeful little gnome that had gotten to it first. Despicable ants.

The things they'd had to do to find an orb of deception for Blackheart so that they could come to Stormwind were ridiculous, but here they were, with Blackheart gleefully perusing the Alliance auction house not twenty yards away.

Brathrion paused as he felt someone watching him. Allowing his gaze to slide to the side, he'd rather expected to see one of the other drakes gawking at him in horror, perhaps already whispering to their mortal companions about the dangers that a single drake could pose.

Dangers, indeed. Rumor was that the black flight was being hunted to extinction, though he wasn't sure that it could honestly be true. They had so many hiding places, so many tricks. There was no way they'd be able to truly get rid of them all.

However, it was no drake or dragon hunter watching him. Instead, it was a rather ragged looking human girl. While he supposed she might be on the cusp of adulthood, there was a bewildered innocence about her that marked her youth. She long brown hair was dirty, as was she—despite obvious attempts to clean up some—and she sat stiffly, no doubt suffering muscle cramps or something of the like. Had she walked far? He didn't find himself overly curious, and was about to dismiss her when he saw her gaze flicker toward him again. It darted away just as quickly.

He let his own gaze wander though when he allowed himself to peek at her from the corner of his eye, he noticed that she'd risen from her seat and was wandering his way. She stopped short and he felt the urge to cause a little chaos stirring in him.

He easily closed the distance between himself and the frail little thing. A single guard gave him a wary look, but even he didn't seem too concerned over a mount's actions. He probably assumed that Brathrion was a gift of the girl's or something of the like. A welfare mount, perhaps.

Though he considered breathing a bit of smoke at the skittish little human to make her jump, when she turned back toward him in that nervous manner of hers, her eyes flew open and she let out a helpless squeak of terror.

No one else even noticed their interactions and he appraised her carefully, enjoying the way the terror sparkled in those hazel eyes of hers. Sound caught in her throat and it occurred to him that she was about to scream. The last thing he needed was for attention to be drawn to him and thus to that idiot warlock when he came out to claim his mount.

Thinking quickly, he tried his best to rein in his nature. It had been some time since he'd truly wooed anyone with his words—the warlock hardly counted as he'd practically jumped for a chance to be used—and for the first time in a long time, Brathrion felt like playing one of his games.

"You wish to ask for a ride, little creature?" For a long moment they merely looked at one another and he found himself unimpressed with her. Perhaps she was too afraid to be a worthwhile toy. "No need to be shy…"

"I don't want a ride," she whispered, her voice so low he had to strain his ears to hear her. Just as he thought, again, to dismiss her, the wind whispered past them and he caught her scent. There was salt water and sweat trapped in her hair and clothes, but beyond that, there was something completely and utterly…foreign.

He couldn't stop himself from sniffing her from head to toe, an old conversation springing to mind as though to taunt him. There was no way she could be real. He drew back and looked her over with more care. Her physical attributes clearly indicated that she was human and yet…

And yet she smelled…and felt like she was something without a connection to magic.

The one thing in all creation he had never expected to find. Even as he asked her what she was, he knew that whatever name she had for herself hardly mattered. To the nether with that witless warlock, his ticket to freedom stood before him, wide-eyed and wary.

All it would take was the right promise and he would be free.


End file.
